


What Once Was Lost

by Within_N_Without



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Consort Bilbo, M/M, Ones, Possessive Thorin, Protective Thorin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-09 14:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4352231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Within_N_Without/pseuds/Within_N_Without
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two realities. </p><p>In one, Bilbo watched Thorin die on Ravenhill, moved back to the Shire, and adopted Frodo, whose presence helped soften the edges of his grief.</p><p>In the other, Thorin survived BOTFA, courted Bilbo and made him his consort. Then, three years after the battle, Bilbo dies in a field, trampled beneath the hooves of a plow horse. He lies buried in Erebor. Thorin bleeds with the pain all dwarrows who have lost their Ones know. </p><p>So, when Bilbo suddenly turns up in Erebor, alive and well, Thorin's not willing to let him go. His soul recognizes his One, even across realities, and he's not willing to listen to anyone who suggests he should release Bilbo. </p><p>Not even if it means saving his kingdom from starvation.<br/>But, in what world would Bilbo Baggins let Erebor starve for the sake of his own selfish love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Found Him by the Oak Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if I should continue this. Any writing advice or suggestions are welcome, as are plot line suggestions. I have ideas but they aren't set in stone. 
> 
> Also, I don't own the rights to the map of Middle Earth, any of the characters, etc, etc... I'm not profiting from this, so updates may in fact depend on how well you can guilt me into continued progress. ^_^

After the battle, Bilbo didn’t know what to do with himself. He stayed for the funerals, mostly just to make sure the Arkenstone really was buried with Thorin, and then made his way back to the Shire. 

To the Shire, not home. He didn’t have a home anymore. His home had died in a blaze of glory without ever knowing how much he meant to Bilbo. He’d never admitted his feelings to Thorin and he felt like a coward. 

But he consoled himself with the thought that it had been the right decision. Better to part in friendship, given he’d never known for sure whether Thorin’s feelings matched his own. There had been hints – the mithril gifted in the throes of gold sickness, the moment with the acorn, their reunion in Thranduil’s dungeons, the conversations they’d had in Beorn’s hall and the campfires that followed, the embrace upon the Carrock, the rescue in the mountains as Bilbo had hung from the edge, and the surrender for Bilbo’s sake with the trolls. 

Alright, so when you put all those moments together, they seemed to point towards something greater. But it had still felt too risky to admit how much he’d…loved Thorin. And now he regretted his cowardice, even though a death bed still didn’t seem like the time to burden someone with possibly unrequited feelings. 

But what was done, was done. Bilbo was back in the Shire and this too, as much as it was painful, felt like the right decision. He felt like a shell of a person, going through routines but never actually surfacing from his thoughts, unwilling to face the pain that came with greeting the real world and admitting Thorin was no longer in it. 

His dwarrows never would have let him wallow like this. If he’d stayed in Erebor, he’d have found himself being mother-henned by ten dear friends that had become closer to him than his blood relatives. Maybe they would’ve been able to pull him out of this misty depression, or maybe he’d have strained their consciences with guilt since they were all busy with the restoration of Erebor. But at the very least, they wouldn’t have let him shut down like this. Even if they’d had to summon Gandalf or Elrond to pull him out of this…lifelessness. 

Bilbo found himself thankful they weren’t around to do just that. Some days, he wanted to wallow and others to pretend Thorin was still in Erebor. Perhaps just being let out of a healing tent, struggling on crutches through the halls of his ancestors and tossing commands to all he passed. 

Whatever happened, Bilbo didn’t want to surface from the hazy world where all the pain was on mute. But rarely did Bilbo get what he wanted. It was as if some higher power was determined to force adventures on Bilbo.

Except this second adventure was quite unlike the first, because the tragedy came before the actual adventure. Drogo and Primula Baggins died. Frodo ended up on Bag End’s front doorstep with a small case of clothes and a bag of mementos and toys to fill his new room with. And, unfortunately, Frodo refused to follow Bilbo’s example and bury himself in mist and fantasy, refused to live on an empty routine while ignoring his pain and grief.

Frodo had gone to pieces in the front hall, clutching at Bilbo’s pant leg and began to sob wildly. For a few minutes, Bilbo tried to console him with platitudes and soft words and consolations. But an image suddenly flashed in his mind. 

Thorin had helped raise Fili and Kili after their father’s death. He had been the role model they’d emulated in some of their more serious moments. He’d probably consoled them in their grief. Held them tight and whispered similar platitudes. 

And suddenly Bilbo was on the floor, wrapped around Frodo, crying just as hard, choking on wet gasps. Their tears lasted all through the afternoon and well into evening. Bilbo rocked Frodo and let himself remember the King Under the Mountain. The living legend and the grumpy uncle. 

When they surfaced from their first onslaught of grief, they were both hungry and emotionally exhausted. Bilbo had led Frodo to the kitchen with a gentle hand on his shoulder, laid out bread, jam, and tea for supper and had offered what he hoped wouldn’t be taken as false consolation.

Clutching Frodo’s shoulder, he whispered, “My dear boy, we must remember this pain isn’t permanent. Really, it’s as if they’ve moved away too far to visit any time soon and we’ll have to endure knowing it may be a lifetime before we can see them again. The journey to where they live will be long and it will be unlike any other journey we could take. On this journey, we will have to plant gardens, eat meals, entertain neighbors, help strangers, run business, watch seasons turn, and count our blessings. Like the blessing of being hobbits, because it means our journey is shorter. We’ll be able to visit our relatives in Yavanna’s gardens sooner than elves or dwarrows. And until our journey is over, we can content ourselves with doing what everyone else must do when living far from their loved ones.”

“What’s that, Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked in nearly a whisper, his eyes shiny with tears, confusion, and a few grains of hope. 

“We can write letters, my boy. And listen for responses in our dreams.” 

And so that was what they did. Every evening, Frodo would follow Bilbo to his office and both would take a scrap of parchment and a quill and they’d write out the details of their days or funny anecdotes they’d like to share or questions they’d like to ask. Then they’d fold their letters, place them under their pillows, and fall into dreams with thoughts of their loved ones. 

It was a cathartic process that became less necessary as the years passed. Bilbo and Frodo healed and by the time half a decade had passed since they’d started living together, they were only writing one letter every month. Even that was more due to the shared tradition than the emotional need. They’d started living again, connecting with the people around them, enjoying the simple joys of life.

Or, at least, Frodo had.

Bilbo still didn’t feel comfortable in the Shire. He spent much of his time at the foot of the oak tree atop his hill, had grown from the acorn he’d collected during the quest – reading books or writing novels. The tree had grown in record time and leaned over Bag End like a guardian protecting its treasure. Somehow, this spot made Bilbo feel at peace like nowhere else. He wasn’t sure if it was because it reminded him of Thorin and the journey or if there was some magic in an acorn picked from Beorn’s garden. Either way, he enjoyed spending most of his days on the hill while Frodo roamed the Shire with Sam, Merry, and Pippin. 

Enjoyed it so much that even this morning, with the sky darkened by low, shadowy clouds, Bilbo still packed a basket with food for elevensies and lunch, a book of maps and a bottle of wine and climbed the side of his hill to nestle against the trunk of the oak tree. Frodo was already gone, promised to return for dinner, which meant the inside of Bag End was unbearably quiet. 

In fact, the hills were strangely quiet this morning. All his neighbors were tucked up inside or down at the market beneath the parasols, not strolling about or out in their gardens as was their wont on sunny days. There was a thickness and pressure to the air and an increasing sense of darkness overhead. The birds were gone. A storm was coming.

But Bilbo couldn’t get himself to move. He didn’t understand his own hesitation, but his feet stayed firmly crossed, refusing to take him down to Bag End. So, he stayed frozen as the winds whipped through the grass ever faster. And he stayed frozen as the first drops turned into sheets of thick water and began to bend the branches of the oak and slide down large leaves to soak Bilbo’s hair. And he stayed frozen as lightning sliced through the air in jagged scars. He stayed frozen even as that lightning speared the hills.

He only moved when the spear hit him. At an impossible angle, completely missing the tall oak tree above him, lightning touched Bilbo and filled his insides with liquefying heat. For a moment, it felt like he was burning, and then the world went dark. 

 

When first he woke, it was to noise. Loud bellows and guffaws and metal crashing against metal. Distantly he heard the call for a medic and shocked shouts of “It’s Bilbo!?” and “Praise Mahal!” and “Someone get the King!” 

But consciousness didn’t last long and he felt himself drift away again without ever seeing who was making all that ruckus. 

When next he woke, it was to echoing silence and a strange, not-really-stale-but-inordinately-cold-given-it’s-not-fresh air. He shuddered into the blanket and tried to burrow into the soft mattress.

“Ah, laddie, come now, don’t move around just yet. I need to have a proper look at ya.” 

Bilbo froze at that voice. “O-oin?” He peeked over the blanket.

Oin didn’t respond, fiddling with a metal instrument and a bandage roll.

“Oh, that’s right. The ear trumpet.” Clearing his throat, Bilbo said louder, “Oin!”

Still the older dwarf didn’t look up. He just went about the business of rolling up Bilbo’s sleeves, revealing raw, burned-looking skin. 

“OIN!” 

He finally looked up, meeting Bilbo’s eyes and quickly looking away. He uncapped some ointment and smeared it along the injury.

Bilbo gaped at his friend. “Oin, why are you ignoring me? Have I upset you in some way? And how are you here in the Shire? In fact, where in the Shire are we? I don’t recognize this place.”

Oin returned the gaping expression. He started and stopped a few times, as if searching for words. Then, breathing deeply, he said, “Ya aren’t in the Shire, laddie. This is Erebor’s infirmary. And I can’t say how ya got here. I expect only a wizard could.”

“E-erebor?! A-are you sure?”

Oin glared at him.

Bilbo glared right back. “Well, forgive me, dear friend, but a moment ago I was sitting under a tree just above my smial on Bagshot Row and now I find myself on the other side of Middle Earth!” 

With a snort, Oin began bandaging his arm. “Well, laddie, I don’t know where you think you just were, but by our reckoning, unless ya have a twin brother who’s been using yer name, then I’d say it ain’t the Shire ya came from.”

“Okay, then where was I before I came to the infirmary?”

“Why, resting in yer lady’s eternal garden, of course.” 

Bilbo’s nose scrunched up. He found it frustrating that he couldn’t read the implication hidden in Oin’s serious frown. “What does that mean, Oin?” To his horror, Oin’s chin wobbled and his eyes flashed with such grief.

“We buried ya laddie. Ya died. Ya were buried. And now, three years later, yer…back again.”


	2. A Hobbit in Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin has been grieving his Consort for three years. So, why is there a hobbit in his infirmary that looks just like Bilbo?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise consistency in adding chapters. The first ones are always quickest, yes? But I'll be doing my best. 
> 
> There's no beta for this, so forgive me my mistakes. There's likely to be some. 
> 
> And thank you for reading. I appreciate it more than words.

Thorin stood in front of Bilbo’s grave, trying not to let his expression break. He breathed deep, training his eyes upward to discourage the tears from falling. 

Three years after Bilbo’s death, six years after the Battle of the Five Armies, the pain was still fresh. Thorin felt like he had a raw, bleeding wound in his chest that couldn’t be healed or forgotten and, worst of all, he knew, as all dwarrows did, there would be no relief. He would live the rest of his life suffering the agony of losing his One.

The only thing that helped ease some of the eternal ache was remembrance. The days when he would spare a moment to visit the grave, to take off his shoes and walk along the slopes of his mountain barefoot, feeling the grass beneath his feet and sun upon his shoulders and the shade of the tall oak tree they’d planted together from an acorn of Beorn’s garden, to pass beneath the shadow of the front gate and feel gravel cut into his soft-soled feet in penance and eat in the glass-ceiling courtyard inside the mountain where Bilbo’s garden still stood, tended by Bombur’s hands now – only these things offered some respite.

He needed that miniscule relief at least once a month, lest he lose himself in blinding pain. He couldn’t afford to wallow. He had a kingdom to run. Nephews, Dis, and the Company to stay strong for. A Council to wrangle, guild masters to placate, and representatives from Dale and Mirkwood to entertain.

This was the only relief he was willing to take. It was enough, no matter what Dwalin or Dain said. He did not need the distraction of a marriage of convenience. Did not need a bed-warmer. 

Not that he was surprised they’d suggest such blasphemous things. Dain had never found his One and Dwalin refused to admit he had one in Ori. So, how could they possibly understand the revulsion he felt at the very thought of someone sleeping on Bilbo’s side of the bed or standing in his spot next to the throne? 

Shaking the thought out of his head, Thorin continued his path through the front gate and to the garden where he let his toes sink into the dirt, trying to connect the gritty feeling to the joy he remembered on Bilbo’s face every time he’d done it. 

“Good Afternoon, Your Majesty,” Bombur said, poking his head up from the herb patch.

Thorin returned the greeting with a nod. Six years since the quest, he no longer bothered reminding Bombur to call him by his worldly name. As long as their interactions were still companionable, Thorin could forgive the formality of being called by his title. 

A radish came flying at Thorin’s head, followed by a carrot and a tomato. Thorin caught them in succession. “What’s this?”

“Lunch, Your Majesty,” Bombur said, standing with a basket full of picked herbs on his arm.

Thorin held in a grimace. Bilbo had loved greens. Had known how to make them appetizing. How to disguise them so even Ori could be tricked into eating them. As much as he hated the taste of raw vegetables, the sweet pang he felt in his chest at the memories – of Bilbo lying in the garden, munching on kohlrabi or popping gooseberries against the top of his mouth – had Thorin dusting the earth off the tomato and taking a bite of its red flesh. They weren’t as big as the ones Bilbo had always grown and weren’t nearly as sweet. 

“Thank you, Bombur.”

The round dwarrow just smiled broadly and waddled back to his kitchen. 

Thorin was about to take another bite of the tomato when Fili and Kili burst into the courtyard.

“It’s Bilbo!” Kili shouted, eyes bright, wide with wonder.

“Or some imposter,” Fili growled, elbowing his brother.

Kili punched him in the shoulder. “He’s come back!”

“Except you can’t come back from death.”

“But he did!” 

“Has to be dark magic.”

“Or Bilbo convinced his Lady to release him so he Uncle wouldn’t hurt so much!”

Fili grit his teeth. “That’s impossible! We must call for Gandalf.”

Kili glared. “So we can confirm this is a miracle. A blessing from – “

“Mahal, don’t be naïve, Kili.”

“ENOUGH!” Thorin bellowed, catching Kili by the scruff before he could launch at his brother. It wasn’t often that they argued, but when they did the results weren’t pretty. “Now, what’s all this nonsense? It seems as if you’re suggesting Bilbo has returned from the grave.” 

“Because, he did Uncle. He’s in the infirmary right now, getting seen to by Oin,” Kili said, gleeful.

“Or, it’s someone who looks like him,” Fili muttered, shifting his foot to avoid Kili’s kick.

Thorin stared at his nephews, uncomprehending. “Not possible.”

“That’s what I said.” Fili nodded satisfied. 

Kili growled. “Go see for yourself, Uncle.”

Dazed, Thorin followed his excited nephews to the infirmary. “Where did you find him?” Thorin asked, feeling out-of-step with the world. Was he even awake? 

“We were coming back from patrol with some of the guards and, of course, we passed by the Oak Tree on our way to the front gate. Bilbo was lying beneath it.”

Thorin blinked hard, the world blurring around him as he struggled to think. The thought of seeing Bilbo again was mind-numbing. Perhaps even horrifying. It couldn’t be Bilbo. He agreed with Fili. It was either dark magic or an imposter. In either case, Thorin wasn’t sure he could face some monster wearing his beloved’s face. 

He paused at the entrance to the infirmary, watching his nephews go in. He didn’t want to go in. In his mind, he was already picturing a Bilbo, rotten flesh hanging from his arms and dark circles beneath his eyes or a Bilbo whose face could come off like a mask, with an unfamiliar voice and a twisted, overly-sweet personality. He shuddered. But being King meant facing the things no one else could. 

With a deep breath, he strode inside, his eyes immediately finding Oin holding off his nephews at one of the privacy curtains.

“Please, Oin, just let us see him,” Kili begged, swaying on the balls of his feet. 

“No one’s going ta see him till the King’s decided what ta do.”

“But you saw him,” Fili pointed out, arms crossing.

Oin shifted on his feet, uncomfortable.

“Was he awake?” Kili asked. “Did you talk to him?!”

“Aye.”

“And? What was he like?” Kili asked, practically bouncing.

“Was he more the undead monster or orc-in-disguise?” Fili asked. 

“That’s the trouble, laddie,” Oin addressed Fili quietly. “He was like Bilbo. If he weren’t dead, I’d think it was him.” Oin met Thorin’s gaze as he approached. “Do ya wish ta see him, yer Majesty?” 

“Wish to? I would prefer to walk into Mordor swordless rather than defile my Consort’s memory by speaking to some creature that wears his skin.”

Oin frowned. “If the hobbit behind this curtain is false, he acted well enough ta trick me. But ya knew him best.” He tilted his head at the curtain. “We’ll give ya some privacy, yer Majesty. Just holler and we’ll come running,” Oin promised, hauling Fili and Kili away with him despite their protests.

Thorin didn’t move right away. He felt sure that whatever he found on the other side of the curtain would tear him apart. But ignoring a problem wouldn’t make it disappear. With a deep breath, he snapped his shoulders back. He felt like he was going to war. Body tense and ready to spring in case of attack, Thorin pulled the curtain and slipped inside.

There was a hobbit sitting on the bed, eyes closed, melodic humming-crystals hooked onto sweetly curved, pointed ears. He had gold-veined chestnut curls that hung in vibrant ringlets, framing a face Thorin had once known better than his own.

He choked on a breath, eyes watering. Not possible. This was not possible. This did not look like some dark creature. It looked like Bilbo, with just a few more lines to his face, soft signs of exhaustion in the crow’s feet at the corners and shadows beneath his eyes. His head dropped a little, chin dipping as if close to sleep.

Hands shaking, Thorin reached out. He touched those ears, removing the crystals so the hobbit could once again hear the world around him. Oin must have given them to the hobbit so they could speak privately in the infirmary. 

The hobbit’s eyes flickered open startled at having the music disappear so abruptly. But as his gaze found Thorin, he shrieked and rubbed at his eyes. He rubbed, looked up, and rubbed again. And each time, his hands came away wetter. His chin was wobbling and he whispered, “Th-this isn’t r-right. No, not r-right at all. You’re d-dead! I watched you d-die! I kneeled at y-your s-s-side on the ice at R-ravenhill and listened to y-your last wo-words. B-begged you n-not to leave. How c-can you b-be here?” When he finished, his entire body was shaking and crying outright. 

Thorin swallowed hard. It was unbearable to see this hobbit falling apart. His muscles strained, trying to resist the impulse to embrace him. “Who are you?” he finally managed to ask, linking his hands behind his back.

The hobbit’s mouth popped open. “Oh! The Tree! I was h-hit by lighting. Th-thorin, am I d-dead? Are these the Halls?” His tears came less and his wobbling chin stilled in shock. “Oh, dear…poor Frodo,” he whispered. “I’ve left him all alone again.” The tears started flooding again, but this time in pity.

“I asked you to identify yourself,” Thorin growled, feeling his temper rise with the heat of recognition in his chest. His heart was beating again, full of strength. It was as if his soul was awakening to meet and bind to its other half. Life was starting to enter his veins again. And, he felt his teeth grit to hear this hobbit cry for another. “And who is Frodo?” he asked in afterthought, wanting to know whether he had a rival. But a rival for what? He felt irritated with himself. This wasn’t Bilbo!

“Now, Thorin, don’t be irritated. We forgave each other, remember?”

“Answer me!” 

“Goodness, no need to shout. I’m Bilbo, of course. Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” The hobbit’s mouth curved into the smile Thorin had kissed so often throughout the three years he’d had with his Consort. 

Too short.

Their time together had been too short.

“And as for Frodo, he’s a good lad, my nephew. I took him in after his parents died. Now who will look after him?” He sighed dejectedly. “But we hobbits have large families. And I’d already changed my will so he would inherit Bag End. Lobelia won’t get her grubby mitts on my parents’ home. I’m sure he’ll be alright,” he consoled himself, wiping away the tears on his cheeks with finality. 

He patted at his trousers and then tried his waist coat, checking the pockets. “Oh, bother, I’ve forgotten my handkerchief.” 

On reflex, Thorin dipped into his pocket and fished one out, handing it to the hobbit thoughtlessly. 

Bilbo’s eyes widened in surprise. “So, does this mean you agree with me about the importance of handkerchiefs? And to think that only in death would you finally admit that a handkerchiefs an immeasurably useful thing to carry with you.”

Thorin scoffed. “That’s not my handkerchief! It’s yours. I only carried it because, as immeasurably useful as you found them, you never did actually remember to take them with you. There were only so many times I could abide you hying off to our rooms in the middle of feasts and banquets and dinner meetings to get a damned handkerchief. And I’m not dead,” he growled. “You are. Or, rather, the real Bilbo is.” 

The hobbit stared at him as if he were mad. “You’re wrong, of course, but I suppose the dead may forget their dead after a while if it’s just like real life. It seems the Halls of Waiting look a lot like Erebor.”

“These are not the Halls of Waiting!” Thorin bellowed, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a migraine. “How could there be elves and men and hobbits in the Halls of Waiting? This is simply Erebor. And one of your likeness is buried here. Our kinsmen have been returned to stone here. How could someone die in the Halls of Waiting?”

The hobbit snorted. “We’re truly not getting anywhere Thorin. I say we’re both dead. You say we’re both alive. Let’s just agree to disagree and promise to mutually avoid stabbings, dangerous tumbles, and war, just in case.”

Thorin threw up his hands. “Mahal save me from accursed halflings.”

“H-halfling?! I beg your pardon? I am half of nothing. I am one whole hobbit. And there’s no need to get so frustrated. I’ve already offered a compromise. 

Thorin choked down a grunt of amusement. This affronted hobbit looked so much like his Bilbo, it was unbelievable. How could anything dark produce a replica of someone so full of light?

Was he really considering this? Was he actually going to entertain the notion that this was Bilbo? And if he was wrong, could he survive the pain of a second loss? But how could his soul be wrong. He stared into the hobbit’s fretful expression and felt his heart speed like a card laid heavy with jewels clacketing down a mine track. “Tell me something only Bilbo would know,” he demanded. “If you are truly him, it should be no hardship.”

The hobbit pondered for a bit, biting his lip attractively. “Well, it’s been a while since the quest and we weren’t speaking to each other for half of it, but I suppose we did have that moment with the acorn, just before the battle. You were surprised I’d carried it all this way.” 

“The quest?” Thorin stared at him, feeling disappointment climb into his stomach and settle there. “Why do you mention the quest when there are so many moments you could mention that were just between us during our marriage?”

Bilbo spluttered. “M-marriage? I think not. You died. We were never…like that…never together…romantically,” he said, shifting uncomfortably and blushing. “I watched you die. Then, afterwards, I returned to the Shire and planted the acorn over Bag End. I adopted Frodo. We grieved together for our losses. I wrote letters to you and Fili and Kili every night for years trying to get over your deaths. And then, a few hours ago, I was sitting on the hill above my smial, tucked against the Oak Tree. It was storming outside and I saw a flash of white, like lightning. I felt as if I was melting. And now I’m here. That’s why I keep telling you, we’re both dead.”


	3. To Stay or Not to Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf assesses the evilness of Bilbo and the likelihood of sending him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading and I appreciate all the comments.   
> A question for those who care about ratings - what level would you prefer this story to be at?  
> Options: E, M, or T.  
> I'm not interested in writing a Gen fic, because I like romance too much to tame it completely.

Bilbo sat on the rug before the hearth in the chamber he’d been given. It was cold in the mountain with the rooms carved of stone and so high up from the valley. As he warmed himself by the fire, Bilbo did his best to drown his thoughts in the thick wine he was sipping. Quarantined like this, away from everyone else, it was impossible to escape the feeling that there was something wrong with him.

He wasn’t supposed to leave the room. Everything he needed, the Company procured for him. But they weren’t allowed to spend any more time with him than necessary. A precaution in case he was Sauron’s spawn, come to…what? 

Kill the King? 

Steal the Arkenstone for the second time?

Turn into a dragon and take over the mountain? 

The wait shouldn’t be long. Gandalf had been summoned, a raven flying off with a message for the wizard to come at once. The message wouldn’t be taken lightly, considering Erebor never summoned Gandalf and Thorin was still skeptical of the wizard.

According to Kili, Thorin’s rant went like this: “The wizard cannot be trusted. He wanted us to win back the mountain for his own purposes. Every grain of inspiration he feeds to downtrodden exile Kings in bar rooms, every hobbit he pushes out his front door, every elf lord he lies to, he does not out of benevolence or true friendship, but for some ulterior motive, some greater purpose. We are all but pawns and Tharkun the hand that moves us towards some greater purpose. And some pawns must be sacrificed. But it won’t be us. I won’t allow it.”

Apparently, it was a staple at feasts when everyone was soused and someone, usually Bofur, made mention of Gandalf’s fireworks. 

Bilbo wasn’t too sure he wanted to be free to wander Erebor. Just the initial walk to his room, following behind an excited Kili and a suspicious Fili, had been enough to put him off the idea. The dwarrows they’d passed had stared, muttered, tugged on their hair, and whispers of “the Consort” had traveled through the halls. 

It was unnerving to feel so many eyes on him and he was sure it wouldn’t change anytime soon. He was the only hobbit this side of the Misty Mountains and had been credited with the saving of Erebor with his theft of the Arkenstone. Now he was, apparently, back from the dead. 

Admittedly, his theory that this was the afterlife was becoming increasingly less plausible. Of course, no one knew what it meant to die. 

Maybe it meant living in fantasies. But then should he be able to feel hunger from skipping two meals? 

Maybe every person who died received a version of Middle Earth to live out eternity in? But then why had Bilbo been thrust into such a stressful situation? And why had there already been a Bilbo here? 

Or maybe there was just one Dead People version of Middle Earth where everyone who died went to live? But then why was Gandalf here? Or the rest of the Company? And why wasn’t it more crowded?

For now, his questions could only go unanswered. 

~

It took two weeks for Gandalf to arrive at the gates on horseback. Not that Bilbo could verify the accuracy of that statement. In a windowless room with only Dwalin to rely on for the passage of time, it could have been longer or shorter. The better the book Ori brought down from the library, the faster the days seemed to fly. Usually, the books that weren’t written in Khuzdul were training books about digging through different kinds of dirt and rock.

His chamber was a lavish place with running water, both hot and cold. The lavatory had ornate tiling, an enormous tub, and all the other expected amenities. There was also a kitchen with a working stove and ovens, and even a cooling pit dug into the floor where perishables could be kept chilled for long periods of time courtesy of the icy water that ran just beneath the stone surface. He wanted for nothing.

Except companionship, sunshine, fresh air, and greenery. 

Those two weeks passed like a lifetime. But finally, there came the day his door opened and it wasn’t a pale, wide-eyed Bombur delivering groceries for the week or Kili “just saying hello” after having tricked or tackled or pranked Dwalin away from the door. 

Gandalf entered first, removing his hat as he passed the doorway. His gaze fell on Bilbo and he turned the slightest bit, but still offered no greeting. The air in the room suddenly grew cold. The fire flickered and the shadows around Gandalf darkened. He seemed to stand taller, filling the space and his gaze grew distant before seemingly pitching forward, sharp and piercing, as if seeing into the heart of Bilbo.

Bilbo didn’t mean to cower. This was his friend. There was no need to be afraid. He wasn’t dark or evil. He was just Bilbo. And thus, Gandalf would never hurt him. But the reminder wasn’t enough to keep his shoulders from coming up and his back from scrunching into a huddle against the fireplace. 

Then, all of a sudden, the light returned. The fire blazed at Bilbo’s back, hot enough to send him yelping forward. 

Smiling, Gandalf sniffed the air. “Acorns,” he said, with a decisive nod. Turning towards the doorway, he gestured for those outside to enter. All of the Company rushed in, Bofur and Kili leading the charge. 

With a merry twinkle in his eye, Gandalf took a knee and opened his arms. “Bilbo, my friend, it’s been such a long time since I saw you, and yet I thought not to see you for a great while longer.”

It was a relief for Bilbo to be able to launch himself at Gandalf and be embraced again in sincere friendship. The last few weeks had been lonely. He’d gotten used to companions over the course of the quest and even on the way back to the Shire he’d had Gandalf along with him. And then, recently, there had been Frodo. 

“Gandalf, I’ve missed you, too. I haven’t seen you since the quest.” 

Gandalf nodded knowingly. “Me too, my boy.” His head tilted towards the Company. “But I think it is these fine fellows that have missed you most.” Addressing the Company, he stood up. “Come, it is safe. It was magic that brought him here, but there was no darkness in it. Simply the right ingredients and a great deal of heartache.”

Bofur and Kili, who had restlessly been shifting on the periphery both shot forward. Kili more violently, with a lot of flailing limbs and enough force to nearly send them rolling. Luckily, Bofur caught them, swinging both into a hug. 

“You know, as soon as I heard ya were in Erebor again, I though fer sure I’d find ya smelling like rotten eggs and looking like a peeled banana, skin all flailing from the wounds you got in that orc fight. Glad you’re still the daisies and sunshine Bilbo. Otherwise, we’d have to replace the hearth with scented candles and have you walk around with flower pots in your arms everywhere you went,” Bofur said, grinning from beneath his hat and finally releasing Bilbo and Kili, who still clung tight. 

Bilbo cringed at the imagery and shook his head. “I don’t think a flower pot would have been enough for a festering version. Although I might try the flower pots if I ever decide to skip a bath.”

“You skip a bath? I think that’s even more impossible than coming back from the dead.” Bofur chuckled as he dragged Kili away, making room for the rest of the welcoming party.

Bilbo got thumps on the shoulder and back from Oin and Gloin. 

A scooping hug from Bifur and a belly bump from Bombur. 

Ori’s hug was soft and made softer by his cardigan. 

Dori’s very proper handshake was not nearly as gentle as he thought it was as it left Bilbo’s hand throbbing. 

Nori greeted him by returning the two handkerchiefs that had just minutes ago been in different pockets of the outfit he was wearing. Bilbo had no idea how he’d gotten to them or when, but he took them back grinning. “Congratulations, that was especially sneaky,” he said to Nori’s proud grin.

Dwalin grasped Bilbo by the shoulders and leaned back as if to smash their foreheads together. As his head was coming down, Bilbo gasped at the giant of a dwarrow and was already wincing when, at the last second, Dwalin gave a howl of laughter and pulled him into a rough hug instead. “Still scrawny,” he said.

“In comparison to you, nearly everyone is scrawny. But could you imagine if I did have as much muscle? I’d probably look like a boulder,” Bilbo said, ponderously.

Balin chuckled, approaching next and clasping Bilbo’s shoulders much like Dwalin did but without the threat of a head-butt. “Now that is an image. If you’d like, I can have my brother train you, eh? What do you say, Master Baggins?” 

“Hey now, if there’s anyone who’s going to oversee his training this time, it’ll be me and Kili. We can teach him everything we learned from Dwalin, Nori, and our mother without endangering his emotional well-being. Wouldn’t want our Uncle Bilbo fainting again,” Fili said. He gave Bilbo a firm hug and ducked his head to say into Bilbo’s ear, “I’m sorry I doubted you. I should have listened to Kili, but it’s not often that he’s right. And, with Uncle Thorin the way he is, we couldn’t afford to be wrong.”

“It’s alright. This situation isn’t at all normal. Being careful was the right thing to do.” Bilbo squeezed Fili and then started to pull away when suddenly he remembered the rest of what he’d said. “Wait, Uncle Bilbo?!” 

“Ah, yes. We should discuss that first, perhaps,” Gandalf said, speaking around his pipe. “This is not the Bilbo who once lived here.”

The room erupted in noisy denials and outcries. Thorin, who’d stayed put against the closed door, belted out something in Khuzdul, silencing the room. He didn’t approach and his eyes never strayed towards Bilbo. But that wasn’t surprising. Thorin already knew he wasn’t the same hobbit who’d lived here. This whole situation had to be painful for Thorin. “You spoke of magic, earlier,” he said, addressing Gandalf. “Explain it to us. Who is he and how did he get here?” 

Gandalf drew a few puffs of his pipe. “There are many things about the world that even the Mair are not given to understand, but long has it been rumored that there are other worlds, other Middle Earths, where conditions are the same but for small differences. Middle Earths where the orcs won the Battle of the Five Armies or Smaug never died.

“Thorin, you shared with me what Bilbo had told you. In his version of Middle Earth, the Battle of the Five Armies ended with the line of Durin greatly diminished. You and your nephews did not survive and Bilbo returned to the Shire. Thus, he was never a denizen of Erebor. Nor was he ever your Consort. He cannot have memories of a life he never lived so he is not your Bilbo.

“And yet, he shares many of the same characteristics and life events up till the battle. And, he too must have planted an acorn from Beorn’s garden. But rather than Erebor, he planted it in the Shire.” 

Dwalin was the first to scoff, although most of the dwarrows were frowning. “Are ye tellin’ us that a bloody tree brought him here?” 

Gandalf choked on a tendril of smoke. Coughing, he glared at Dwalin. “It is not merely a tree. It grew with unnatural haste and the acorn it grew from could only have originated in Beorn’s garden. The magic contained in the acorn was negligent, but with growth came power. And with life’s greatest emotion as its nourishment, the magic flourished.”

“Greif?” Bilbo asked.

“Love,” Gandalf corrected. “The magic flourished in two different versions of Middle Earth. But magic alone was not enough to simply whisk Bilbo away from his version to this one. To have traversed the boundary between worlds, Bilbo would have needed to possess a deep, soul-abiding desire for something that could not be found in his own reality. That, and a lightning storm.”

“Something that could not be found in his own reality,” Thorin repeated, his eyes finally meeting Bilbo’s. “And what would that be?” 

Bilbo’s mouth dried. That gaze…it was not what he’d expected at all. There was nothing cool or remote in it. Rather, the absolute heat in Thorin’s eyes warmed a blush on Bilbo’s skin. He looked starved. Suddenly, it seemed as if it wasn’t anger keeping him near the doorway, but self-restraint. Bilbo got the impression that if he were any closer, Thorin would devour him. And under the weight of that gaze, Bilbo couldn’t be anything but truthful. 

“I left Erebor after Thorin and his nephews died even though there was nothing but scorn and ostracism waiting for me in the Shire. Erebor felt empty without them and seeing Dain on the throne filled me with despair. After the winter, I returned home. And much as I love my nephew, Frodo has reached an age where most of his time is spent outside with his friends or reading in his room and attending to his studies. As his need for me waned over the years, my loneliness grew and I started to spend every free moment beneath the Oak Tree thinking about the past rather than living in the present.”

“So, you’re here because you need us!” Kili estimated.

“Well,” Bilbo felt his ears turn red, “I suppose so, yes.”

“And this version of Middle Earth needed Bilbo,” Kili continued, looking to Gandalf for confirmation. 

“Indeed,” Gandalf said, blowing a smoke ring. “Your conjectures seem plausible. However, I have not seen such magic before. Though I can identify the source and what was needed to make the magic work, it is not something I could replicate. Bilbo, my friend, if you wish to return to your world, I will begin researching means to undo the process, but I must warn you, it could be many years before I find an answer.” 

“He doesn’t want to leave us!” Kili insisted. “Right?”

All eyes turned to Bilbo. Except Thorin’s. It was as if he feared the result. His whole body was visibly tense, as if awaiting a blow.

Bilbo toed at the rug, shy under the intensity of his friend’s stares. But this was his family. Closer to him than any of the relatives he’d had in the Shire, with the exception of Frodo. They were honest and rowdy and caring in boisterous ways. He could be himself in their presence without fear that they spoke badly of him behind his back. 

“In my version of Middle Earth, it’s unlikely I’ll ever see my friends again. The journey to the mountain is long and arduous and I was never brave enough to face the memories of what had been lost. I won’t go back to Erebor. 

“And Frodo is growing up. He’s building his own future, laying the paths for his own adventures. He doesn’t need me like he did when he was a fauntling. He’ll miss me as I miss him, but if it’ll be years before you can return me home, I won’t be there to see him through his tweens and into adulthood. It’s better if he thinks I’m dead forever and grieves once, than him thinking me dead and having me return. He’s a good boy. Takes too much on his shoulders. He might feel guilty he hadn’t searched for me.

“But gracious, is this decision really even in my hands? It can’t be easy confronting a second version of me. I’m sorry for having put all of you through this. Though I didn’t intentionally make this trip, I can understand the ways it could be both inconvenient and uncomfortable for you. I don’t want to cause you hardships. I saw the looks the dwarrows in the mountain gave me. They must be scared and uneasy. Besides, for all that I’m not an imposter, I’m still a different Bilbo Baggins than you’re used to. It may be too awkward to accept someone who looks like the person you knew, but isn’t. 

“In fact, it’s probably better that I leave. Even though it may take years for Gandalf to send me back, that doesn’t make all of you responsible for me. I can wait in the Shire or become a hermit until such time as I need to borrow your tree again.” Bilbo had given his speech quickly never looking up for fear he’d be distracted by their reactions. 

But now he peeked at his audience from beneath his bangs, startled at the dead silence in the room. His inquiring gaze was met with a Company of baffled expressions, a stoic King, and an amused wizard. “Um…”

It started, oddly, with Ori. He, of course, had come prepared with a large tome and writing utensils. He’d been taking notes on everything that was said, he pen a blur across the page as he sat cross legged on the floor. His blinked first at Bilbo then at the page and he started to snicker.

“Excuse me for saying this, Master Baggins, but you started with all the reasons you wanted to stay and ended with all the reasons you think you should leave.”

This made Dwalin snort a laugh. “And here I thought there must be some way ta avoid arguin’ with the fussy creature. But looks like if he can’t argue with someone else, he’ll argue with himself.” 

This proclamation got the rest of the Company laughing. 

Bilbo huffed at them in exasperation. “I really don’t think this is amusing.”

“No, it’s not,” Thorin agreed. 

The room quieted instantly.

For the first time, Thorin stepped forward. He didn’t get close, still more than arm’s length away, but close enough that Bilbo felt his shadow. 

Bilbo’s heart raced as he met Thorin’s eyes. It didn’t feel like six years had gone by since his death. The time he’d been without Thorin felt like a lifetime, full of soul-sundering pain. And yet, Thorin still felt as familiar now as he had in Laketown. This was the Thorin who’d talked to Bilbo of his childhood and Erebor’s greatness; who’d asked his opinion about dealing with Bard; who’d held his elbow on walks through Laketown’s market under the pretense of ensuring he wouldn’t get lost. Time and version had not turned him into a stranger. And Bilbo felt as comfortable (and blushingly flustered) as he had back then. 

He felt embarrassed under the intensity of those blue eyes. That scorching gaze wasn’t for him. That gaze was for Consort Baggins. Bilbo tried to drop his eyes to escape that penetrating focus.

But Thorin finally closed the distance between them. His hand rose to cup Bilbo’s chin, lifting it again. He wouldn’t let Bilbo turn away.

“I would have your selfish answer. Without considering our feelings or the other dwarrows, do you wish to stay?” 

Bilbo hummed in distress. “But I’m not the Bilbo who belongs to this world.” He tried to control the small whine of upset in his voice, but he didn’t think he managed if the sudden softening in Thorin was anything to judge by.

“My soul would disagree. I feel strengthened by your presence in a way I only ever did with my One. I don’t believe you are truly different. You have had different experiences and have made different memories, but though there may be many worlds, I do not believe there is more than one Valar. Nor do I believe that there are many versions of the Halls of Waiting.”

“No, there are not,” Gandalf interjected the confirmation with the absolute certainty of a Mair. 

“So, perhaps then, we are only ever a piece of a greater soul,” Thorin continued. “Mahal knows, as a mortal, I have always longed for you, my soul crying out for its other half in order to be fulfilled. Perhaps, beyond this world, there is a greater completeness that awaits us? A completeness built when all the versions that were ever me meet with all the pieces that were ever you.” 

Thorin looked to Gandalf for his reaction to the theory, but the wizard simply raised a white caterpillar of an eyebrow. “I am not dead yet, Master Oakenshield. And even if I was, the death of a Mair is quite unlike any other death. But what you describe has merit. I suppose it is possible.”

Thorin rolled his eyes at Gandalf. “Wizards. Always so illuminating,” he muttered just loud enough for Bilbo to hear. 

Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek, but it didn’t stop his instant grin. “Hush you,” he whispered back in a way so his lips wouldn’t move. 

“So, Bilbo? Think only of your own desires and give us your answer,” Thorin commanded, his demeanor changing. Thorin always gave off a majestic air, but right now there was no mistaking him for anything but a King. And his expectant gaze coupled with the unnatural stillness of the Company made the room feel eerie. 

But then Bilbo supposed it was appropriate given the life-changing nature of this moment.

Wringing his hands, Bilbo still fretted. “But what will I do here, Thorin? I don’t know anything about mining. Or carving. Or jewelry. In fact, I think I have an aversion to shiny things because I hate snow and large bodies of water. Blades and armor make me nervous. I’m not terribly strong. 

“And I’ll need a garden. All hobbits need a garden and that would be terribly inconvenient. Not to mention impossible on the slopes of the mountain. Even Dale only grows things farther out, past the desolation. And what about food? What do dwarrows eat when they’re not out journeying? Because I must tell you, Thorin, a hobbit’s table must have green things. These last two weeks, most of the ingredients Bombur brought by were meat. Chicken’s all well and good, but it’s all the better stuffed with spinach and mushrooms.”

Though Bilbo was busy thinking about what it would mean to live in Erebor, he wasn’t so tuned out that he didn’t hear Dwalin mutter, “Figures that his stomach would have the final say.”

Instantly Bilbo’s finger popped up. He was planning to shake it at Dwalin threateningly while lecturing about the importance of balancing meals, when Kili suddenly reached out and punched the older guardsman in the shoulder. 

“Pipe down,” Kili ordered a growling Dwalin before gesturing at Bilbo. “Please continue.”

Dwalin looked like he’d retaliate, but then Ori squeezed his forearm and gave him this look. Dwalin immediately subsided, although he crossed his arms, grumpy. 

“Children, all of them,” Thorin commented, shaking his head at the Company. But when his attention returned to Bilbo, his eyes were bright and happy. 

“It gladdens my heart that you’ve considered what a life in Erebor would be like. We can discuss the details later. I promise you, we would not offer to share our home if we were not fully confident we could assure your happiness. So, once more, this time without a speech, is it your desire to stay?”

“But we haven’t even discussed – ”

Thorin clamped a hand over his mouth. “No speeches. Aye or nay. Would you make this Middle Earth – this Erebor – your home?”

Since Thorin still hadn’t removed his palm, Bilbo glared at the domineering King just before he bit his incisors into the calloused flesh beneath his lips.

Thorin sucked in air through his teeth and snatched his hand back. “Mahal, save me from hobbits. What is it? Do you want to discuss vegetables some more? Or perhaps you’d like to know if our tailors can manage handkerchiefs and waistcoats?”

Bilbo huffed. “Well, I’m sorry, Thorin, but I’m afraid Aule won’t be saving you from this hobbit. I’ve decided to stay.”

Whoops and resounding cheers filled the chamber with enough noise that Bilbo’s ears were ringing. 

And his heart was a heavy drum as Thorin embraced him, steel arms banding around Bilbo, pressing him into the thick fur of his surcoat. Even with so many competing sounds in the room, Bilbo clearly heard Thorin’s deep, beautiful voice as he murmured against the shell of his ear, “Welcome back, Ghivashel.”


	4. That's What Bilbo Baggins Hates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Bilbo is to live in Erebor, he must be explained to Erebor. But of course, even a simple assembly can go awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd read this chapter and edit it again, but I finally figured out the plot of this story and I'd rather look ahead than behind. I usually edit during writing, but there's always mistakes regardless so please forgive me if there are a few more this time.
> 
> Maybe Khuzdul ?  
> namad - sister  
> amad - mother  
> adad - father  
> Ghivashel - jewel of all jewels Also, any preferences on the rating?

The plan to reintroduce Biblo to Erebor involved all the things he hated. Assemblies, speeches, fancy dwarven tunics, heavy jewelry, lots of introductions, more staring. He woke up that morning expecting it was going to be bad.

He did not expect to find a dwarrowdam in his receiving room. Otherwise he’d have worn more than his robe.

“Oh dear!” Blinking rapidly, Bilbo pulled his robe tight and held onto its thick lapels. “May I help you, Madam?”

And, indeed it had to be a dwarrowdam, but it wasn’t by her beard – about the length of Fili’s and neatly braided – or her clothes – trousers, tunic, and boots – that he recognized her as one. 

No, oddly enough, he knew her by her armor – more specifically her breastplate. It’s shape had more space in the bust, but curved sharply downward over the ribs in a way that a male’s more gradually-planed chest could not.

“You may,” she said, her voice melodically low, edged with command. Much like Thorin’s.

“Oh.” Bowing partially in respect and partially to hide his hot blush, Bilbo again regretted his robe. “Princess Dis, it’s an honor to meet you.” He’d never met her in his Middle Earth. She’d still been traveling towards Erebor when Bilbo had left for the Shire. 

“Just Dis,” she ordered, stepping out of her lean against the fireplace to stand in front of Bilbo, looking down her nose at him in such a perfect imitation of how Thorin had first looked at him that, in surprise, Bilbo’s eyebrows climbed his forehead without his permission. 

Dis huffed. “That’s the same expression the other Bilbo made when I first met him.”

“You must have stared down your nose at him too,” Bilbo guess, grinning. “Did someone have to teach the two of you that stare or is it a family trait?”

She gave him an unimpressed look and announced, “You have fifteen minutes to prepare for the assembly. And fifteen minutes to convince me to let you attend it.”

“So, is that a total of thirty minutes or do I have to multi-task?”

“This is no laughing matter,” she growled.

“I’m being entirely serious,” Bilbo said, hurrying back to his bedroom and the wardrobe within. 

“Thirty total,” Dis said, begrudgingly. 

“In that case, help yourself to a muffin. They should be in the second cupboard from the cooling pit. I baked them last evening for supper so they’re still relatively fresh.”

Dis didn’t respond, but he heard her rifling in the cupboard.

The clothes inside Bilbo’s wardrobe were regrettably dwarven. Which meant layers, square cut, rune embroidery he couldn’t read, and long trousers cuffed closed at the ankles because he didn’t wear boots. Well, at least it was warm. 

He picked up his clothes and carried them towards the lavatory. He passed Dis, who was sitting on the countertop, licking her fingers of the muffin-lacing peach syrup. “You know, I’ve heard accounts of the quest, but you’ve always struck me as such a mismatch for my brother. Did you perhaps reach his heart through his stomach?”

Bilbo paused to smile at her sadly. “Well, I can’t tell you anything about this world. But in mine, the only meal I ever made for him was the first one of our acquaintance. And, I can assure you, given how late he arrived, his arrogance in my entranceway, and my overall frustration by that time, the meal I served him didn’t win me any of his favor. All he got was cold stew, leftover bread, and a few leaves of cabbage which he ignored. But, then again, we were never romantically involved.” 

Dis lifted a skeptical brow. “Just because you refused to see it doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

Squeezing his clothes to his chest, Bilbo shook his head. “Oh, no, no. I was just the contracted burglar. I was lucky to get the chance to be helpful during the quest and somehow it earned me Thorin’s friendship, but nothing more.”

“Just a burglar,” Dis repeated, grinning. “Our Bilbo said that too. Because he was just in denial. Tell me, was your quest so different? Did you not save my idiot brother before the Carrock? Did you not rescue him Thranduil’s dungeons? Did you not receive mithril from him during his gold madness? Accepting an expensive or self-made gift that can be used in battle heralds the start of a courtship.”

She wasn’t expecting an answer, having read them straight off Bilbo’s open expressions. And she took in his shock with a decisive nod. “So, you’re humble, oblivious, and you cook well. I’m willing to trust Dwalin’s word on your fussiness and the Company attested to your feistiness.” She gave a decisive nod. “You’ll do.”

Then she slid off the counter and pushed a spluttering Bilbo into the lavatory. “Now get changed. Don’t keep me waiting.” 

Irritated, Bilbo stomped over to the wash basin. “Fussy? Oblivious?! Fiesty?!!” None of those words described him! 

In fact, those were more the words he’d have used to describe fauntlings or a few of his more senile aunts, who threw endearing fits over the number of wrinkles in their sons’ shirts and then got cooed over and placated. He was a hobbit in the prime of his life. He was not to be placated!

Dwarves!

And likely Dwalin in particular. Fussy, indeed. See if he got any cookies after this! 

When he returned to the receiving room, he found Dis sharpening one of her daggers on a whetstone. “Ready?”

Bilbo dipped into his pockets, reassuring himself that he had his handkerchiefs. Going over to the kitchen counter, he pulled a cookie jar out of a cabinet and removed a few cookies that we wrapped in clean cloth. He tucked them into his overcoat. “What’s going to occur during this assembly?” 

Before Dis could answer, a knock came at the door.

“Yes, come in,” Bilbo said, wondering if there was time for a quick breakfast. He heard the door open and someone come in, but the boots stopped just inside the door. 

At first, Bilbo didn’t pay any attention, busy hunting down some nuts amongst his cabinets. He was startled away from his task with the sudden explosion of growling Khuzdul coming from the next room. 

“What in the world?” Bilbo dashed in to find Thorin and Dis standing nose to nose, arguing about who knows what. “Excuse me! What’s going on here?” 

The dwarves ignored him.

Bilbo crossed his arms unhappily. “If you continue to act like cats, I’m going to take the handy spray bottle I found beneath my sink and spritz the both of you, assembly be damned!” 

Thorin paused mid-shout, apparently having been at least partially aware of Bilbo’s tirade. “You’re threatening to spray the royal house of Erebor like a pair of unruly cats?” 

Bilbo found himself confronted with twin eyebrow-raised stares. “Oh, don’t give me those looks. We have an assembly to go to, yes? Unless you’re revoking your permission?” he directed mostly towards Dis. 

“Permission?” Thorin growled. “He doesn’t need it! He is a member of the Company. He helped reclaim Erebor. I won’t let anyone frighten him away, nor will I allow anyone to make him feel uncomfortable in his own home. Not even you, namad.”

They looked prepared to launch back into their argument, but Bilbo caught their attention with a snort. 

“Dramatic,” he said, shaking his head at Thorin.

“Me?!” Thorin looked astounded. “But she – ”

“ – is your sister,” Bilbo interrupted. “And she only has your best interest at heart. Besides, no need to be upset. Everything was squared away before you showed up. Is it still?”

Dis nodded, grinning. “Indeed. Seems like you’re capable enough to keep my brother in line and though you’re small I can’t imagine you letting him bully you into anything. That’s really all my qualms laid to rest.”

“Though I’ve never had siblings, I can imagine you’d want to be sure no one close to him would be the type to harm him, be it emotionally or physically.”

Dis laughed outright. “Trust me, the emotional harm he does to himself. He’s been wallowing in his own misery ever since his Consort died. I know the strain of that loss. I lost my One decades ago, but I did not have the option to wallow. I had sons to raise. And he has a kingdom to run.”

Thorin scowled, but that didn’t stop Dis.

“He thinks he can sit on his throne, all broody and frowning and overly-serious, and that it won’t affect his rule. But that’s simply not true. When the people see him so unhappy, so lonely, they’re not willing to come forward with their own problems. They don’t wish to burden him so we don’t hear about what’s going on in the lower levels and we don’t have the time to visit them ourselves. But these past two weeks, even though he’s been distracted and unfocused, have been leagues better than they used to be. It’s like my brother is coming alive again. And now I can see that the person responsible for that change is a worthwhile one. I welcome you, Master Baggins.” 

If Thorin’s scowl got any darker, they were going to have to give him a candle to hold so they could see his face.

“Thank you, Lady Dis. It’s good to be back.” He was going to remind them about the assembly and ask if there was time for breakfast, but another knock came at the door. 

“Oi! Are you all comin’ or should I have the assembly come up here?” Dwalin shouted through the heavy oak. 

“We’re coming,” Thorin hollered back. 

Bilbo saw Thorin’s arm reaching but he was still startled to have a large hand press against the small of his back. “Come, Bilbo. We don’t want to be late.” 

Dis followed them out and walked with Dwalin behind them 

Bilbo tried to pay attention to the path they took towards the assembly hall, but it was…not something he could do on the first try. Eventually, he figured he’d learn to manage. The craftsmanship of the dwarrows was too ostentatious and too full of love and pride for the halls of Erebor to remain a mystery forever. Each passage they took had landmarks he’d eventually learn the placement of. Some hallways had carvings in the stone, others paintings. Some stairways were riddled with symbols while others were cut in complex square designs. Some walks were laced with veins of precious metals and others looked more functional, scraped with the passage of heavy wagons and in need of a broom. Some bridges and skywalks were flagged by statues or had overlooking gargoyles, some had rails where others did not. The mountain was like a tableau for the crafts of dwarrows throughout the ages. With so much unique work everywhere, it would not be difficult to construct his own map of the place to make getting about easier.

Finally they entered the assembly hall, which stood on a raised platform much like the throne room, except much larger and more cavernous, with pillars forming an outer ring along a wide, open space. Beyond that ring, you could see the edge of the platform, and from below rose a swell of noise.

Thorin leaned close, whispering into Bilbo’s ear. “The hall below is for anyone who wants to casually listen to the announcements but couldn’t afford to take time out of their day to attend. The assembly hall proper is generally where you’ll find the higher-ranking dwarrows and guild masters, although anyone is allowed to attend.”

Bilbo nodded along but his gaze had doubled back to the pillars. Some of them were girded with scaffolding and propped up on the sides with metal beams. “Is that still damage from the dragon?” 

“Yes.” Thorin sighed. “It will take the rest of the decade to undo the most significant of Smaug’s devastation.” He again led Bilbo with a firm pressure at the small of his back to stand next to a raised square on the dais at the front of the hall.

They had been last to arrive. The hall was standing room only with people of all walks of life assembled by class. Fancier-dressed individuals stood right before the dais while dusty miners and droopy-eyed night guardsmen stood at the very back. From the very young to the very old, it seemed everyone had tried to make it out for the assembly. 

As Thorin mounted the square platform, a hush swept through the hall. No one spoke. Not even a whisper. You could pinpoint some of the dwarrowdams in longer skirts whose slight shifts disturbed the tense, waiting air. 

“All of you grieved with me when Consort Baggins, Hero of Erebor, died three years ago.”  
Bilbo tried not to cringe. They’d discussed the lie they would tell to explain his reappearance in Erebor. Telling the truth had not been an option, lest it inspire every dwarrow who’d ever lost someone to raid Beorn’s garden. Not to mention it was a hard truth to swallow. But that didn’t make it any easier to play pretend. 

“In truth, he was not deceased. But his injuries were so extensive, we were sure he would never wake again. And yet, I could not lose hope entirely. I ordered him kept alive and periodically healers would visit and attempt new cures, tonics, and potions to wake him. Finally, a few months ago, we started a new medicinal regimen and started to see improvements. 

“In a few weeks, he was on his feet again, but he was dazed from the long sleep. He slipped his room in the middle of the night and wandered the halls before collapsing beneath the Oak Tree, where he was found the next day. It was not black magic or sorcery, but a miracle. Hobbits are truly hardier than they look. Bilbo is alive and well. The only remaining symptom of his extended ailment is the loss of his memories from after the battle.”

He ended with a note of finality in his voice and raised his right hand to invite questions. Immediately, the room was drowned in an uproar. People were shouting out questions, blessings, complaints while Thorin tried to instill order and pick out the more troublesome or gossipy dwarrows in the crowd to allay their suspicions and enforce the lie. 

It was mayhem, but Bilbo didn’t close his eyes against it. Eyes wandering, he took in all the lively expressions, mostly directed at Thorin. Most of them were joyous, exultant, teary. But there was a solid portion who did not look too thrilled to hear about Bilbo’s apparent recovery. Many of them wore stiff, expensive tunics and lavish overcoats that distracted away from the contempt and hostility they spewed at the dais. 

For the first time, Bilbo wondered what it had been like for the Bilbo who had seen Thorin survive and decided to stay with him. Had dwarrows opposed the marriage, considered it untraditional and therefore wrong? Did they share the same opinions as Thorin before the quest? Did they consider him too weak, too young, too foreign for the King of Erebor? 

Bilbo continued scanning the crowd until he found something…odd. The dwarrows who’d attended the assembly had all congregated in the middle, away from construction. The platform was stable, its support coming from below rather than the decorative pillars, so it was the safest place to stand. 

Bilbo had never seen nor met a dwarfling, but if they were anything like faunts, they didn’t care or worry about safety. Especially in a place so full of adults. All they cared about was that they couldn’t see over all the people standing in front and that’s where all the exciting things were happening.

Which would probably explain why there was a trio of dwarflings making their way along the outer edge of the congregation. Very close to ten floors worth of metal poles and wooden planks. 

Wringing his hands, Bilbo let his eyes drift over the scaffolding, trying to calm his racing heart. He was being ridiculous. Dwarrows had built the scaffolding. Even if it was temporary, it had to be stable. There was nothing that compared to dwarven work. But then, why did it seem like the structure was swaying?

Sidling up to Dis, Bilbo asked, “So, how’s work been coming along on those pillars?”

Dis didn’t turn to look at him, distracted with monitoring Thorin’s increasingly frustrated explanations, but she spared a moment to say, “I don’t know. Ask the Men. There’s not an idle hand in all of Erebor and there won’t be for many years to come. So, when Bard told us some of the Laketowners needed extra coin, we offered them nonessential restoration work. Otherwise, it’d be a century before we got around to fixing things like these pillars.”

“The Men are in charge of construction up here?” Bilbo asked, not sure how to feel about that. Were Men good at construction? Could the scaffolding be trusted?

Dis hummed noncommittally. “They are, although you wouldn’t know it from their progress. They haven’t been back for several weeks, too busy preparing for the winter. The food situation isn’t very good at the moment.”

Bilbo didn’t get the chance to ask her any more questions. 

Dis shot forward, slipping off the dais and into the crowd to smash a pair of violently arguing dwarrows together.

Biting his lip, Bilbo edged towards the lip of the dais, eyes still roving over the scaffolding. Well, it couldn’t hurt to go stand in the outer ring. He’d feel better being in proximity to the dwarflings. In fact, he could probably lure them away from the structure entirely and help them find their parents in the crowd. 

Decided, Bilbo slipped from the dais and around the chaos. Oddly enough, no one noticed him, eyes so firmly fixed on Thorin or Dis rumbling with unruly dwarrows or each other as they discussed the validity of Bilbo’s return. What sounded like old and worn arguments were being dug up. There was a lot of pushing and growling going on, the energy and excitement spreading to those who had earlier been simply happy at the news. Now, instead of waiting for the King to defend their Consort, they did it themselves. 

Unruly dwarves, the lot of them! Bilbo wished he had his spray bottle. 

Finally he found himself on the outer ring. Farther up the curve of the hall, the dwarflings were leaning against the scaffolding, watching the chaos with awed little faces, rubbing the tufts of their tiny beards in sympathy as the dwarrows they were watching threw fists. None of them noticed the metal beams moving, bit by bit, beneath the pressure of their combined weight. 

Seven dwarflings stood near the front legs of the structure. Three leaned against the right, four against the left. And any second, the already rickety legs would snap outwards, dropping several floors down on their heads. 

In fact, it already looked like it was happening. 

Bilbo ran, light, quick feet barely touching the ground. “Go! Get out of there! It’s going to fall!” he yelled, but in the din of the hall, one thin hobbit voice went unheard. He kept trying. Shouting even as he reached them, pushing heavy-boned, shoulder-height, and already muscled dwarflings away from the legs. 

He’d managed to shoo them away just as the front legs finally gave in to the pressure. They snapped outward, the first floor clapping down like a fly swatter. Thankfully, no one was under it to suffer the blow. 

But with the sudden jarring jostle, the metal beams of the next floor came apart from cheap bindings. And one by one the floors fell, each one falling with some skew as poles prevented the floors from collapsing straight downwards. 

The dwarflings froze in awe at the structure coming down faster than seemed possible right on their heads. They were still in range of the damage and again Bilbo closed in on them, grabbing at their dusty tunics and shouting at them to run. 

By the time they listened, the last floor was clapping downwards, its shadow falling on Bilbo and the last two dwarflings. He ran, pushing at their backs, but not fast enough.

~

One moment, Bilbo was standing at his side, the next moment he was gone. Thorin turned his head, searching around him for his hobbit. 

Not there.

Crouching to punch Dwalin’s shoulder from the dais, he asked, “Where’s Bilbo?”

Dwalin didn’t even look up, his eyes focused on the three dwarrows screaming in his face, demanding to be let through to better confront Thorin. “Las’ I saw, ‘e was up there with ye!” he shouted to be heard.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Thorin muttered, rising to inspect the faces in the crowd and the spaces between bodies were his short friend might fit. As a minute passed, Thorin’s scan became increasingly more desperate. “Bilbo, where are you?” he growled. He’d only just gotten Bilbo back and he was missing?! He was going to kill the hobbit.

In this sort of crowd, it was common to get an elbow jabbed in your face or heavy boots trampling your feet. Imagining Bilbo’s slight shoulders and large, naked feet in this mess made Thorin’s gut clench and twist. 

Looking for Bilbo from up here, he decided, was pointless. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Jumping from the dais to land between Dis and Dwalin, he gestured into the crowd. “Bilbo’s missing. Encourage anyone who doesn’t look blue in the face to return home and help me find him.” 

But they didn’t get far before there was a high pitched scream from one of the dwarrowdams in back. One of the scaffoldings was falling. 

“’Cause we needed more trouble,” Dwalin complained, loudly, changing direction to go deal with the mess.

Dis stopped him. “Bilbo!” she gasped. “He was asking about the pillars earlier.”

Immediately, Thorin barreled forward. He belted out an order to clear the way. Most were clear-headed enough to comply. Dwalin and Dis were right behind him. 

Arriving in front of the wreckage, they found a group of crying dwarflings, a few of them straining to lift the top layer of wide wooden planks. 

“What happened? Is someone under there?” Dis asked them, but Thorin didn’t wait.

Gesturing for Dwalin and a few of the nearby dwarrows to grab the edges of the planks, they began to lift. The sight that greeted them nearly stopped Thorin’s heart. Two dwarflings lying on their chests with Bilbo between them, his hands reaching outwards for them, as if to push them away.

“Dis, get Oin! Tell him to bring his aids and stretchers.” he ordered, throwing the planks on top of the remains of other levels. 

One of the dwarrows who’d helped with the planks reached for a dwarfling.

“Don’t move them! They may have injuries to the spine or neck.” He kneeled at Bilbo’s side, feeling a horrible sense of déjà vu. “Dwalin, go find their mothers. Don’t let them come near. ” 

It was a struggle to keep his composure. The mantra was in his head. Not again. Not again. Not again. He’d lost so much in his life – his father, his brother, his home, his One. He couldn’t lose his burglar again. Not this soon. Not this violently. Not like this. Not again.

He could scarcely look at Bilbo. The way he was lying face down was so much like the way he’d been when they’d found him. Down in the dirt, dents in his back where the hooves of the panicking plow horse had cut into his back, no visible blood on his dark, muddied clothes, but his body still and his limbs sticking out at odd angles, like a dropped puppet’s. 

He breathed to keep from retching and distanced himself, letting his eyes drift upwards, away from another tragedy. 

There was finally, finally a hush in the hall. Most dwarrows looked shell-shocked, some of them visibly shaking. Dwalin was keeping two at bay, holding them tight by the wrists so they wouldn’t run to their dwarflings. 

As Thorin waited for Oin, he wondered if Bilbo was destined to die in this version of Arda in some horrific way. Or maybe they were destined to be parted by death in every existence. After all, Bilbo had lost him too. Maybe they were only ever supposed to teach each other. Maybe they were always going to be too late. 

One of the dwarflings stirred. Groaning, he twitched each of his limbs as if he meant to crawl away. His amad rushed forward, but was once again stopped by Dwalin. 

“Wait,” he warned her, then raised an eyebrow at Thorin.

Leaning towards the young dwarrow, he asked, “Does anything hurt?”

The dwarrow sat up, rubbing at the top of his head. “Not really.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“The whimpy building fell. The little elf made us run away, but we weren’t fast enough.”

“Yeah, we just wanted to see it fall the rest of the way, but we were too close. It’s good that the little elf made us move,” the other, smaller dwarfling rolled over. She blinked rapidly and huffed, but answered to Thorin’s prompting, “Nothing hurts. We were just surprised. So I closed my eyes. And then you said not to move so I didn’t. Can I go to adad now?”

“Me too! I want to go to amad!” 

Thorin quieted them with a reproachful glare. “You will wait to be checked by the royal healer and if you are truly uninjured you will be returned to your caregivers.”

The bell-like laugh that greeted Thorin’s declaration nearly stopped his heart. 

“I swear, you are such a sourpuss. I can practically hear the glare in your voice.” Bilbo turned over, a hand over his eyes to stave away the light. 

“D-does anything hurt?” Thorin managed, not trusting his voice to say any more.

“I have a fierce headache and falling is never pleasant. I think my knees might be scuffed from these flagstones, but really this is nothing compared to the goblin tunnels.” Slowly, Bilbo lifted his hand away and grinned up at Thorin. 

There were few things in this world Thorin would ever consider truly beautiful. 

His mountain, because there was so much nostalgia and pride in every stone and carving. 

His family on principle, because even when Kili’s hair was in knots, or the Company came back from dinner covered in chunks of potato and turkey shavings, they were still precious to him so he did not see their faults and flaws as anything but endearing.

And his One. He’d thought it from the first, before viciously stamping out notions of nibbling on the hobbit’s pointed ears or licking along the vein in his neck, and he’d thought it at the last, even with Bilbo lying cold in the little grave he’d dug because a child of the Green Lady shouldn’t be returned to stone. But he was especially struck in moments like these. When Bilbo was vibrant and laughing. When he shared his light so generously that he banished the darkness in Thorin’s thoughts effortlessly.

“Well, at least the fighting’s stopped,” Bilbo commented.

“Can you sit up?”

Slowly, with the smallest cringe, Bilbo sat up.

“Move your neck in a circle, but don’t force it. If it hurts, stop.”

“Worrywart,” Bilbo teased, but did as he was told. “Satisfied? Nothing’s broken, I can promise you that. The worst was being whacked on the head, but one level of planks wasn’t nearly as bad as all of them.”

“You’re still going to be checked by Oin,” Thorin said, his voice brokering no debate. Before Bilbo could argue further, Thorin placed careful a careful arm around Bilbo’s back and one beneath his knees before pulling him into his lap. He held Bilbo close, burying himself in short, chestnut locks and breathing deeply. “Ghivashel, I understand the risks you take, but please be careful in your endeavors. You should have asked Dwalin to go with you. Just in navigating the crowd you could have been hurt.” He kissed Bilbo’s forehead. “My heart travels with you. Please protect it.”


	5. Love and Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's old trusty items are returned to him. And he maybe overhears something that he shouldn't have. Or at least, something Thorin would have never let him hear if he'd known he was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are mistakes in this one too, aren't there? Sigh. Apologies.  
> Also, thank you guys so much for the comments! I seriously do a little dance whenever I see one and I take advice seriously. If anyone has any tips, comments, or just wants to point out moments that were good, then know I read everything and it's a super huge motivator to keep chugging.
> 
> As for the story,  
> Forgive me, but I gave Stealth Bilbo another secret power. I don’t think the Ring is supposed to be a magic translator for anything but evil languages, but hey? It’s magic right? And we are in an AU.
> 
> And I'm still holding off on an official rating, but if it's M, it probably won't be for a while.

After being checked by Oin and then squeezed and scolded by practically every member of the company, Bilbo found himself again being led by Thorin.

“Should I be taking notes? Because eventually I’d like to be able to navigate this mountain on my own,” Bilbo said, patting the dwarven overcoat in search of a scrap of paper and a stick of charcoal on the off chance whoever had prepared it had anticipated his habits. No such luck.

“It is admirable to know the mountain, but you’ll always be able to turn to your personal guard and ask.” 

“Wait. What personal guard? Why would I need one?” 

“I’ve assigned a trusted dwarrow to your personal detail.”

“No, you didn’t. Because you’re a clever dwarrow and you know that a Baggins would never accept a babysitter.” 

Thorin ushered Bilbo into his office. “You are no longer a simple hobbit from the Shire. You are known throughout Arda by men, elves and dwarrows alike. And, given the lie we chose, you also wear the Consort title.” 

Bilbo froze. “Oh dear. I didn’t consider that. So, everyone’s going to think I’m your Consort?” 

Thorin lifted a regal brow. “How did you expect they would consider you?”

Narrowing his eyes, Bilbo waved a finger at Thorin. “Hey now, don’t look so amused. It’s a fair mistake. To pretend to be your Consort by standing at your side during assemblies is one thing. It’s another to realize that everyone’s going to expect me to act like a Consort. I don’t even know what it means to be one. Do I have responsibilities? Don’t I need training? Did the other-me need training?” 

Still amused, Thorin took him by the shoulders and squeezed gently. “Hush, Ghivashel. I brought you here to discuss your future in our kingdom. Our kingdom, because you are my Consort. However, you may choose what you wish the title to entail.”

Nodding towards the large, horseshoe desk, Thorin said, “I have…your things. You should recognize some of them from your quest. Others were gifts from the Company or things you purchased yourself. And there is a garden in the mountain.”

Bilbo wrung his hands. “Are you sure it’s right that I should have them?”

“Why? Are you an orc in disguise?” 

As Thorin rounded the desk, Bilbo made to sit in the stiff wooden chair in front of it, but Thorin caught his hand and tugged him over to his side. 

“You’ve always hated that chair. You called it the punishment chair.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. “You mean the other Bilbo. As in, not me.”

“You are the same soul. I know it as no other being in Arda could confirm. There are some things I know to expect of any Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin said, offering Bilbo the armchair as he leaned against the spacious desk.

“Such as?” 

“You will always love green things and seek to fill my rugged mountain full of dainty flowers. You will always insist upon a lit hearth, even in the summer, but you’ll resist wearing more layers or covering your feet with boots. You’ll do anything for those you love, even if it comes at a cost to yourself. You will always value the comforts of home over gold. And you’ll prefer a cushion over a slab of wood to sit upon.” 

His eyes were so serious and so lit with heat that Bilbo quaked beneath that gaze. He felt his ears reddening as his heartbeat quickened with desire. But at the same time, he felt ashamed. He didn’t deserve to be looked at like this. He wasn’t this world’s Bilbo. He hadn’t been good enough to save Thorin. He’d failed. Thankfully, Thorin looked away before Bilbo’s eyes could wet with tears. 

Kneeling, Thorin lifted a corner of the rug beneath his desk and unlocked a panel in the floor. “I’ve kept the things you considered most precious here,” he said, reaching in to lift a large bundle. He placed it on Bilbo’s lap. “Open it.”

Thorin didn’t make to stand. He stayed at eye-level with Bilbo and it created such a strange feeling of intimacy that, coupled with the silence of the ornate room, Bilbo felt like a thief in the night as he unwrapped the package. 

The binding came away to reveal a ragged piece of clothing. It was clean and smelled like soap, but it wasn’t until Bilbo unfolded it that he recognized his old jacket. The one he’d bought at Laketown.

“You kept it as a disguise for whenever you went into Dale,” Thorin said, his tone conveying his disapproval. 

Bilbo smirked. He undid the buttons on the jacket and opened it up to the next layer. Unsurprisingly, he found the mithril shirt, also folded. 

Before Bilbo could unfold the mail, Thorin said, “I gifted you with the mithril before my betrayal at the gate.”

Though it wasn’t worded as a question, his tone implied he wanted either confirmation or denial. Bilbo held out his hand and waited for Thorin to take it. Squeezing tight, he said, “We forgave each other for what happened at the gate, didn’t we? You weren’t yourself and I couldn’t think of a solution that didn’t involve betraying you. So, please don’t refer to your reaction as a betrayal.”

Thorin’s changed their grip and gathered up Bilbo’s hands between his own. “Only if you do the same,” he said, kissing his fingers.

Nodding hesitantly, Bilbo continued, “As for the mithril, yes, you gave it to me before the battle. I’m quite certain it saved my life.”

There was a flicker of upset in Thorin’s eyes as he bit out, “You shouldn’t have been out there in the first place.”

Bilbo’s hands were still trapped between Thorin’s, otherwise he’d have flicked him. “I really don’t think you want to rehash that battle with me, given I saw the future your recklessness could have bought.”

“I have been fighting in skirmishes, brawls, ambushes and wars since before you were born. You, on the other hand, held your first blade during our quest; you used it maybe thrice; and it wasn’t a sword, it was a letter opener. You speak of me taking risks? You should never have been out on that field.”

“There were plenty of moments during the quest that me and my little letter opener got the job done. And though I don’t have much skill with wielding pointy objects, I have plenty of luck.”

“You cannot go through life relying on luck and good fortune to keep you safe!” Thorin sucked in a breath, visibly trying to suppress his temper. But oddly enough, his hands were still a gentle clasp around Bilbo’s. “Mahal. save me from bickering, fussy hobbits! How is it that you manage to turn me so far from my point?”

“Well, I can’t claim any responsibility for your sense of direction. From the anecdotes that were bandied across the campfires of our quest, I gathered you’d been born with the ability to turn yourself around even on a road with no turns.” 

“That road twisted back onto itself!” Thorin defended.

“On your way to Ered Luin, you walked half a day to the loop in the road and another half day back to the Men’s village!” Bilbo’s laughter was so hard as he recounted the tale (he’d heard it from Balin, of all dwarrows), he nearly toppled from his chair. 

“Who builds a road with a loop?” he muttered, but his eyes were bright.

“How did you miss the landmarks? You’d just finished passing them?”

“Landmarks?! They were trees. They all look the same. The only one that doesn’t belongs to us and brought you here.”

Still giggling, Bilbo said, “Indeed, it did. So you should show more respect for green things. Might keep you from getting lost.”

“Speaking of getting lost, it seems we’ve found my point again.” He waited for Bilbo’s giggles to subside. 

It didn’t take more than a few last huffs of amusement. Thorin’s eyes were so very solemn that they demanded Bilbo’s full attention. 

“You were brought here and you have said you wish to stay. To build your future here and call this home for the rest of your days. Valar willing, there will be many days and much time. So there is no rush for answers. Taking back this mountain has forced me to learn patience. But that does not mean I am willing to waste time on misunderstandings.” 

Thorin shifted closer, abruptly reminding Bilbo that he was on his knees, hands still clasped together. “I love the soul that is Bilbo Baggins. Whatever form you take, whatever past you’ve lived or future you decide to pursue, my heart will wander with you, sequestered in your chest. You are my One. From the moment I accepted it, I have known what it feels like to be truly complete. But the children of Yavanna don’t have Ones. You are free to love whoever you wish. Yet I am still a selfish dwarrow. Selfish enough to ask for your love in return.”

Here, he pressed Bilbo’s hands to the mithril shirt. “I was sick enough to think you would understand my intentions when I gave you this the first time. I thought this gift would explain all the words I could not find the courage to utter. Explain that I trusted you with Erebor, with the dwarrows who would live here, and myself. With this gift, I asked for your courtship. And, though I return this to you because I want you protected, I am also selfish enough to ask you to accept my original intentions. I ask that you consider becoming my Consort in more than just name and a change in apartments.”

Bilbo felt faint. How long had he loved Thorin? He’d admired the majestic, remote exile King who bravely chose to continue with a mad quest for a lost homeland with only twelve dwarrows at his back. He’d liked the uncle who teased his nephews and the friend who spared moments between brooding sessions to check in with the Company, encouraging Bofur’s jokes, complimenting Bombur’s meals, egging on Dori’s mother-henning, praising Ori’s sketches. And he’d loved the dwarrow who’d admitted to being wrong. The dwarrow who’d opened his obstinate, over-dramatic, protective, and deeply passionate heart to Bilbo.

And Bilbo had failed to keep it beating. He still remembered those months after the battle, when the guilt had been near overwhelming. He could’ve done something different. Kept his mouth shut about the secret door. Ducked the rock that had rendered him unconscious. Given his magic ring to Thorin during the battle. Maybe if he’d run faster or taken a moment to pick an elf or a dwarrow out of the mess of fighters – just somehow gotten the message to Thorin on Ravenshill sooner – he wouldn’t have lost this possibility in the Arda he’d come from. 

Lips trembling, Bilbo started to say, It’s not a chance I deserve. He didn’t get past the first syllable. 

“Hush, Ghivashel. Whatever your answer, I won’t let you give it now. As I said, I have patience. And unless you find your heart with another, I will continue to wait.” He slid his large hand to the back of Bilbo’s neck, fingers a warm caress, and pressed their foreheads together. 

They stayed that way for a long moment. Close together, breathing each other in. 

A log in the fire snapped sharply and Thorin leaned away. He brushed Bilbo’s cheek softly as he stood up. “I should show you the rest of what belongs to you.”

Shaking off the remnants of his sadness and placing the Laketown coated package on the chair, Bilbo followed him to the back of the office. “The rest? You mentioned a garden, earlier. You can’t tell me you keep it behind your office,” Bilbo said, scandalized. “This is not the proper altitude for a garden. And if you think a patch of earth constitutes a garden – ”

Thorin grinned. “How do you imagine I could’ve transported a garden? It’s still where you left it. And you will be pleased to know, I did not let your efforts to botanize my mountain go to waste. Bombur has been tending to your precious plants.” 

Lifting a corner of the back-office tapestry, he pulled Bilbo close and said, “Open it.”

There was a door beneath the tapestry. And beyond it, the most wonderful room. It was as if someone had taken his home in the Shire and sought to recreate its spirit. The walls in here were rounded and closer to the ground, nothing like the square, cavernous office. There was a lit hearth and plenty of oil lamps to cast the room in a warm, golden glow. And, best of all, his things – his mother’s mementos and his father’s knickknacks, their portaits over the fireplace, the maps, the books, and the armchair – were all here. Everything he’d ever cherished. 

“In a drawer in the adjoining kitchen, you’ll find your silverware, kettle, tea mugs, pipe, and Old Toby,” Thorin said.

Bilbo was speechless. 

“The entrance from my office is a secret. You have my solemn vow that I shall never use it without permission except in the event of an emergency. So, if you’d like, these could be your rooms.” 

“Oh, my. Yes, please,” he breathed, taking in the sight of all the things he’d thought never to see again. “Thank you, Thorin. This is incredible.”

Thorin rubbed his beard against the top of his head in a nuzzle. “Only you would look upon a small, humble set of rooms as if it were the treasury.’’

“Oh, posh,” Bilbo said, waving him away, embarrassed. “Any hobbit would feel the same. Except the Sackville-Bagginses.”

Automatically, Thorin hissed, rubbing at his ear.

“What? What is it?”

“Just remembering your cousins umbrella.”

“Oh no. Not Lobelia?”

“Yes, Lobelia. You know, after meeting her, I regretted not taking her on our quest.”

Bilbo scoffed. “Why? Do you imagine she could have aided you better?”

“No, but our stay in the Goblin tunnels might have been less violent if we’d facilitated a family reunion. Reintroducing your cousin-in-law to her estranged relatives could have saved us an epic battle.” 

They shared a laugh, drawing unconsciously closer. Thorin pulled them together, fitting Bilbo’s body against his, tucking Bilbo’s head under his chin. They clung together, suddenly aware of the time they’d been apart.

But the embrace fell away with a distant knock on the door. Thorin frowned. “That’s my office.” He opened Bilbo’s door and the knock was suddenly a deafening boom. As if someone were trying to bang the door.

“I know you’re in there cousin!” 

Thorin groaned. “Dain. He won’t go away until he’s placated.” Sweeping a hand through his hair, he sighed. “It’s been a long day, Bilbo, and after what happened at the assembly, you need your rest. Is there anything you need from your old rooms?”

Bilbo shook his head. “None of those things were mine.” 

Thorin nodded, kissed his forehead, and swept back into his office.

Bilbo had planned to follow Thorin’s suggestion because he was in fact tired. But he remembered the coat and mithril he’d left lying on Thorin’s chair. It couldn’t hurt to go fetch it. 

Bilbo slipped into the room so quietly, none of the dwarrows – Dain, Dwalin, and Thorin – noticed him there. And he didn’t feel like he was imposing. Though they were shouting about likely very important, private things, it was all in Khuzdul anyways. 

The coat was still where he’d left it. Bilbo picked it up by an edge, holding on to the mithril inside and snatched it up in his arms. But he’d never unfolded the mithril. He’d meant to earlier, but Thorin had distracted him.

Something fell from its folds with a deafening thunk. 

Bilbo’s head shot up, ready to apologize, but Dain and Thorin were still shouting at each other. No one had heard the noise. Was he just imagining how loud it’d been? Bilbo kneeled down to pick up the little black box. Except, he didn’t recognize it. Square and covered in felt, it was the kind of box Bilbo had only seen in Bree. A ring box.

Hobbits didn’t wear rings. They did too much gardening and cooking for it to be practical. No, they wore flower crowns. 

Out of curiosity, Bilbo opened the box. Inside, he found his little, magic ring. Picking it out of its silky bed, Bilbo caressed its smooth, cold edges. Almost without thinking, he slipped it on. 

Immediately, the world turned grey and the shouting grew hushed. It should have made it easier to ignore, but the dwarrows were really screaming at each other now. And, what’s more, Bilbo understood them!

How was it possible? He could clearly hear Dain calling Thorin a ‘thick-headed orc-sucking clod’. 

A memory drifted up as Bilbo’s stomach grumbled. Starvation. Dehydration. Elves in the woods. And the spiders in the trees. Spider’s he’d understood when he’d put on the ring. 

“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO INTERFERE!” Thorin roared. 

Loud enough that it had Bilbo scurrying under the desk, shocked. That voice was one he had not heard in a very long time. Full of the level of rage he’d aimed at Azog. 

“Cousin,” Dain begged. “Ye should have told me. Ye can’t believe I was fooled. I was there when ye discovered ‘im. It was me and Dwalin who carried ‘im back t’ the mountain. I stood beside ye when ‘e was laid t’ rest.”

“What need was there for you to know? He’s returned to me. That’s all that matters,” Thorin growled.

Peeking over the desk, Bilbo found Dain shaking his head. “’e hasn’t returned. ‘e’s not yer One.”

With a snarl, Thorin threw himself at Dain. “DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT HE IS! You, who have never felt the other half of your soul! There is nothing like the pain of losing it. And there is no mistaking its return.”

“Please, Thorin, send him back to the Shire. Tell your people it was all a mistake. A magic spell someone cast, some apparition that took ‘is space.”

“Go back to your hills, Dain!”

“Och, y-you!” Dain fussed his mustache angrily. “Stubborn, pig-headed boar! This was the last shipment!”

A hush fell over the office.

“I need the rest of what we have fer me own people. After this, y’are on yer own. Now, that Blacklock princess from the Grey Mountains, she could provide everything ye need. Ye’d be safe if only ye’d marry ‘er. It’s the right choice, if an unfortunate one. Tell him Dwalin,” Dain said with a nudge.

Dwalin grunted, unhappily, but relented to Dain’s imploring stare. “He’s our hobbit. One of the Company. And I know how much he means to ye. I used ta think we’d pull through. That his luck would last and he’d point the way out of this mess. That we’d endure, as dwarrows are meant to. I never thought I’d ask ye ta take the easy way out. But the lower levels are sufferin’. And soon, they won’t be there ta suffer at all. So, if it’s a choice between love or sacrifice…is he really so hard to give up?” Dwalin finished, desperately. 

Thorin answered with a humorless, bitter laugh. “If you’d accept your One, if you stopped denying what you share with Ori, you would not ask this of me. You’d know it was impossible.”

Bilbo shivered. What in the world was going on? The only thing he was sure about was that Thorin had to make a choice. Between Bilbo and his people. Sitting back on his feet, he rubbed his face in his hands. The choice was simple. 

The Traitor-Thief of Erebor who didn’t even belong in this world or scores of innocent dwarrows? And from what it sounded like, he’d failed his dwarrows again. Failed to produce another miraculous escape. Failed to find the way out. 

Well, if Thorin didn’t think it was an easy choice, Bilbo would have to make it for him.


	6. Goodbye Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo discovers what his job used to be and makes some decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys. This was originally supposed to go differently, but I figured this scene didn't need to be longer. 
> 
> For anyone who's worried, I don't typically read or write fanfics that end badly. There may be some drama along the way, but I'm not planning an ending like Tolkein's.

Planning a secretly-this-is-goodbye dinner was proving to be more difficult than previously expected. Bilbo had started immediately in the morning. It was the first one where he wasn’t in quarantine or being picked up for an assembly. 

Apparently, the Consort had made an effort to fit in. There’d hardly been a single hobbity outfit to choose from, so Bilbo had taken the hint and left his room dressed in dwarven tunics from his new closet. He took the exit on the opposite side of the apartments, leading out into the hall, instead of the secret entrance to Thorin’s office.

Immediately a dwarf stepped forward, dipping into a bow. “Gimli, at your service,” he said, brightly. “I believe you know my adad, Gloin.” 

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t we met before?” he asked, wondering if Gimli knew he was the Bilbo who’d left Erebor before meeting Gloin’s beloved wife and son or if he believed Thorin’s lie.

“No, we’ve never met, Your Majesty,” Gimli said, cheerfully. “After all, ye only just arrived.” 

“Call me Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he returned the greeting. “And, I’m very glad to meet you. But, did you want me for something?”

“Aye, indeed, I did. I thought y’might like a tour.”

Bilbo nearly laughed. Thorin was too clever for his own good, assigning Gloin’s pride and joy as his guard. There was no way he could refuse. And a tour was actually a wonderful idea. Particularly considering his plans. 

If he could find the courage to say goodbye to Thorin, then he wouldn’t be able to just outright announce his departure. He remembered Thorin’s reaction yesterday. It wouldn’t be pretty. He’d have to find his own way to the gate, likely in the middle of the night. And it might be his last chance to see Erebor. After this he’d have to compensate his losses with stories about this magnificent kingdom.

“A tour sounds lovely,” Bilbo said, pulling out a small journal and his stick of charcoal. “Lead the way.” 

There was not a moment during the tour where he had to ask Gimli to slow down. As he drew his map and noted landmarks (particularly those he’d be able to spot in the dark) Gimli recounted historical facts about different tapestries or the equipment that had been used to cut or chisel the stones in different passages. He had a truly poetic soul, able to turn even engineering processes into a story.

He took Bilbo all through the more relevant, public areas mountain. Of course, dwarrows stared, but most wore wide eyes and reverent smiles, likely glad their King was smiling more often. And that thought hurt. If he disappeared from Thorin’s side, would the King eventually learn to be happy? 

A princess sounded like a good choice for a King. He could have children of his own. Dwarrows considered dwarflings to be Mahal’s greatest gift and blessing. He’d be happy. And having some strange Bilbo who’d only shared a quest with you run away was nowhere near the pair of losing a beloved Consort of three years to permanent death. 

They would have dinner. Bilbo would leave. And Thorin would marry a princess and save a kingdom…because what was wrong in the kingdom? Well, Bilbo would be able to ask about it before he made his decision. Maybe over dinner. Someone, maybe Ori, Bofur, or Kili, would more openly speak of issues. 

But for a dinner, you had to have ingredients. As they reached the end of “Erebor: Part 1”, Bilbo enquired about the garden, but Gimli assured him Thorin would want to be the one to show it to him. “Speaking of, he’s in his office.” Gimli said, rapping his knuckles on the oak of a high, ornate door. “He’ll want to spend his lunch hour with you. I’ll be back later to show you the rest.”

“Enter,” Thorin shouted.

Gimli helped him heft the door, before leaving to attend to his own lunch and other duties.

Inside the office, it looked much like last night. One of the unfortunate truths about living in a mountain was that the fires were lit all day long. Coming from a hobbit smial straight here meant Bilbo felt it was constantly evening in the mountain. 

The only difference between night and day in Erebor was that more dwarrows were asleep and less torches were lit in the halls. But there was a nightshift, typically in vocations that did not require interaction with other races. Merchants had to sell to the Men, venturing out when the sun was high, so they all worked dayshifts. 

“I’m almost done here,” Thorin said. “We could eat in your rooms, if you’d like? That way no one must sit in the punishment chair.”

Bilbo grinned. “That would be lovely. Should I prepare lunch?”

“One of Bombur’s staff is bringing something up.”

“Alright. Don’t take too long,” Bilbo said, keeping his voice light. Honestly, he wanted to spend every moment with Thorin, in case these were some of the last ones he’d get. But he couldn’t afford to attract his suspicions.

He settled for searching his quarters. He’d been too exhausted last night to find Sting and consider what items he’d need if he left Erebor. In general, the flat-topped chests that served as side-tables to the sofas and settees in his room seemed like reasonable places to start his search for a sword. After all, he’d always been fond of glory boxes.

One of the ones in the room was obviously his mothers, likely full of the same mementoes as his own version in Bag End. He didn’t check, unwilling to refresh sad memories when his mood was already so low. 

The first chest he actually opened to check was oddly stuffed full of embroidery, yarns, boilies, threads, and monogramed handkerchiefs – unfinished projects that might have been meant for gifts, given that they bore different dwarven family crests. 

The second chest he checked seemed to double as a filing cabinet, which was odd since it stood in the drawing room, rather far from the Consort’s office located three levels down next to Balin’s. And Bilbo had never been one to keep documents in chests – nor books or drafts or scrolls. 

He pulled out a sheaf of bound papers. The top parchment simply read Statistics. Bilbo opened the bundle and glanced through the first few ledgers. The concluding remarks written at the bottom of the first page said rodent population increased by 3000%. 

Bilbo scoffed. Impossible. He was familiar with all kinds of rodents. He was even familiar with plagues of rodents. Scanning the numbers listed in the ledger, there was more than enough cats, traps, spells, and poisons to exterminate any kind of rodent. Sure, the beasties were clever but nothing compared to the mousers and Men who’d apparently designed battlefields in the fields and in front of the granaries.

He moved on to another ledger. This one of plants, soil types, labor and material for building an irrigation system. The plantations they’d built in the surrounding valleys sounded very advanced. And yet, when Bilbo checked the crop yield, the amount was pitiful. 

Barely enough to feed a few dozen families let alone all of Dale and Erebor. 

Impossible. Such a low yield implied the farmers were doing everything wrong or that they were being struck by tragedy after tragedy. It would be understandable if there was drought, infestation, broken irrigation, and plague all throughout the valley. 

And, even then, Bilbo as a child of Yavanna had the gift to coax life from the Earth. It had been the secret to his prize winning tomatoes. Picking through the papers, they weren’t recent. The dates in the margin were all from before the Consort had died. 

“Has Balin already told you?” a deep voice asked, just behind him.

Leaping up with a squeak, Bilbo spun around, his grip on the papers slipping. They spilled across the ground.

Immediately, Thorin moved to pick them up.

“Oh, no, please, leave it. I’ll pick it up. It’s my fault,” Bilbo said, embarrassed.

“I startled you,” Thorin argued. “So, it was my fault.”

“I shouldn’t have been startled. I was expecting you.” Bilbo was expecting the argument to continue and was already tapping his foot, willing Thorin to just gracefully accept his apology.

Instead, Thorin smirked. “Well, you are very excitable.”

“Hey!” Bilbo thwacked him with a few of the papers. “You should knock before entering. You said you always would.”

“Forgive me. Because I was expected, I thought it would be safe to invite myself in.”

“Well, what if I had been undressing?”

Thorin leered, teasing, “In the middle of lunch, in the middle of the drawing room when you know I’ll soon be joining you?”

Bilbo turned beet red. “Oh confound it and botheration! Don’t you have any shame?” 

“In my regards to you? Not an ounce,” Thorin said, fondly. But there was nothing so mild as fondness in the smoldering heat in his eyes. 

Bilbo cleared his throat, his cheeks and ears still blistering with heat. “You mentioned Balin when you came in?” 

Thorin returned the papers to Bilbo. “Your old documents, from when you headed the Agricultural Committee. You started it in an effort to get the dwarrows involved in Dale’s efforts since it was the one thing neither of our communities could do without, and yet involved skills neither party had in abundance. You gave them lessons, helped them plan, made investments in the land, the crops, the traps. And, in the beginning, it was very successful.”

“Why didn’t it stay successful?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin froze. He suddenly looked very pale. His shoulders straightened in a defensive posture Bilbo remembered him using whenever he needed to gather his strength. “We don’t know why it failed. You were investigating it. Looking through the ledgers. Looking for something else that could be done to save the crops.”

Bilbo shook his head. “These ledgers are impossible. If we were really doing all these ledgers claim, we shouldn’t have been losing so much produce.”

Thorin visibly flinched. 

“Is Head of the Agricultural Committee the job Balin is going to offer me?”

“Yes,” Thorin answered, warily.

“And so it’s my job to discover why the crops are failing?” Bilbo was starting to get a clearer picture in his head. Yesterday’s argument, the one Bilbo had unintentionally spied on, had been about the crops. Given the state of Dale’s crop yields, the Grey Mountains was a solution. But they didn’t just want the gold. They wanted political ties. A Grey Mountain princess on the throne. And people wanted Thorin to agree because… 

“Are the people starving?” Bilbo asked in quiet horror. He didn’t add the rest of his thought – because of me. Normally, the Baggins in Bilbo would have kicked him for such a narcissistic thought. As if any one hobbit could be responsible for the starvation of two kingdoms.

But wasn’t he? If not totally, then in a very large way? Consort Baggins, of this Arda, had been in charge of ensuring the kingdom had food, because even dwarrows can’t live off meat alone. And meat wasn’t all that easy to come by in the lower levels, given its price. Meat took years of feeding and nurturing to mature from calf to cow to slaughter. Naturally, they relied much on potatoes and root vegetables and the odd salad item.

Consort Baggins had died during the search for a solution. And then Thorin had been left to grieve. Three years was not long. But it was more than long enough for temporary solutions to run dry and the need for bounty to outweigh the grief of a lost One. Thorin was nothing if not dutiful to his people. He would have married the princess.

But then Bilbo Baggins had come back again. 

Thorin had probably begun a search for more temporary solutions even before he’d known if Bilbo was real or just some evil demon come to steal the kingdom. 

“The people are not starving.”

Bilbo gave him a shrewd, narrow-eyed look. “Not yet,” he guessed, “but you are in crisis. How bad is it?”

Thorin sighed, worry lines appearing like crags through a canyon. “Everyone is on rations. Money can’t buy you more food from our storage houses or the fields. Merchants from far off come to sell us ingredients, spices, and perishables. But the need is so high that the cost has been driven up. Only a few of the men and upper level dwarrows can afford to supplement their diets. Even hunting and fishing both require special permits so that we don’t decimate the local wildlife populations. The elves have warned us away from taking more than can be replenished. 

“What about the Shire?”

“Too far. The food wouldn’t keep for the length of a journey and there are many perils that separate our lands.” Thorin’s answers were full of exhaustion. As if he’d spent many nights considering solutions and had found fault with all of them. 

Bilbo stared at the ledgers again and thought about his gift from Yavanna. Maybe he didn’t have to leave? Maybe he could be so lucky and so selfish as to keep Thorin? How many fields could he help make plentiful? He’d only ever practiced in his garden. But he nodded decisively and told Thorin, “I need to go see the fields.” 

He’d meant to explain his plans and talk through the details of how soon he could begin presiding over the committee. He didn’t get the chance.

“No,” Thorin said, a warning in his voice. “You can ask anyone you wish to act as appraiser, but you’re not going.”

Bilbo gaped at him. “You can’t be serious? I need to see the field to know what I can do to fix it.”

Thorin crossed his arms, broadening his stance. “You’re not going.”

“I have to.”

“You aren’t going!”

“Why?!”

“Because I won’t let you!” Thorin bellowed. 

Bilbo took a deep, calming breath. As much as he usually couldn’t control his own temper, he was aware that yelling at Thorin wouldn’t get them anywhere. It wasn’t a viable strategy when dealing with someone so stubborn. “Thorin, you can’t just give me an unreasonable order and expect me to accept it with no explanation. Why can’t I go see the fields?”

Thorin shuddered once, but his face was a mask. Blank and remote. The way he used to talk about past battles and deaths. 

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Did your Consort go see the fields?” he asked hesitantly.

Thorin swallowed hard and gave a sharp nod. “Once.”

“Why not more than once?” Bilbo pressed gently, already expecting the answer.

“He was trampled under the hooves of a spooked plow horse.” 

Bilbo’s mouth went dry. That had been his death? A plow horse? It was an absurd thought. He’d survived mountain passes, goblins, stone giants, a barrel ride down a roaring river, orcs, a dragon…only to meet his end at the hooves of a plow horse? 

It sounded wrong. But he didn’t dare say you can’t be serious. Because Thorin definitely was. His eyes looked tortured. And likely he’d had similar thoughts. But there was a difference between Thorin’s opinion on the matter and Bilbo’s own. 

Thorin, as much as he sought not to underestimate Bilbo, likely couldn’t help but consider him small and fragile. He likely wouldn’t think to question the nature of the death.

Bilbo may have been a gentlehobbit, but he’d been no stranger to fields. As a fauntling he’d frequently roamed the Shire. He’d survived Farmer Maggot’s ire and the sharp jaws of his hounds. He’d run beneath the hooves of Rangers’ steeds, quick and nimble, there and gone before the horses could even react. And he knew something of frightened plow horses. They wore blinders and when they spooked, they generally ran in one direction. Even a deaf hobbit with his toes in the earth would reel the vibrations and get out of the way. 

And even if Bilbo had been so horribly distracted that he hadn’t noticed the approach of a huge, frightened beast, then why hadn’t he survived being run over? A frightened horse ran. It did not pause to stomp over someone who hadn’t been threatening it.

Again, Bilbo found himself thinking impossible. “Are you sure it was a plow horse?”

“There was blood and…on the animal’s hooves.”

“Strange.” Bilbo huffed a breath. “Well, regardless. It sounds like it was a terrible accident. I still need to see the fields.”

The way Thorin looked at him, it was as if he’d suggested finding another dragon-infested mountain to liberate. “You can forget about it. I won’t allow you in the fields. Never again.”

Bilbo tsked in annoyance, but let the matter drop. He would put the goodbye dinner on hold for now. Maybe he could fix this, but he wouldn’t know until he investigated the field. Thorin would not be swayed. But, thanks to a magic ring, he wouldn’t have to be.


	7. To Confirm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo makes inquiries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the delay. All The Things happened. And for some reason, on top of real life, this chapter was utterly horrible to write. I got stuck and this is the result. It's not everything I wanted in this chapter and it could have gone on for another scene, but that could take me some more time and I've delayed long enough. This really is just a confirmation, because in real life you investigate before you make life-changing decisions or start crying wolf. Next up, Thorin & Co. 's plan to fix this before the kingdom starves.

Apparently, Thorin wasn’t as naïve of Bilbo’s tricks as he had been six years ago. He had Gimli as his constant companion during the day, and a guard posted at his door at night. At his door. It took about a week before he realized Thorin’s office was not guarded around the clock. 

During that week, Bilbo insisted Gimli take him to the produce sellers in the market and demanded to be shown the lower levels. 

Gimli frowned, but did not argue. “If you’re sure, Master Baggins.” 

“Wait,” Bilbo paused in the doorway of his room. “I’m the only hobbit this side of the Misty Mountains.”

“Aye.”

“Will I be able to see what Erebor’s really like?”

“Nope,” Gilmli said, bluntly, rocking on his feet. “Ye gotta understand Master Baggins, we dwarrows are a prideful lot. They’ll want to be swingin’ their best axe in the presence of the Consort. Especially considering how much ye helped put to rights in the lower levels. Cleaning, settling people in, handing out supplies, putting up refreshment booths with water and clean towels when they were picking up rubble. Ye made sure they felt at home from the very first day. Even if they had nothing to their names and had to sleep in the hall until more rooms were cleared, ye made sure they were looked after. And dwarrows don’t forget that sort of thing. They won’t want to burden ye with their troubles.” 

Bilbo sighed. He’d been afraid of that. But he let Gimli show him the way the first time. It was amusing to see how, down in the lower levels, the crowds shifted without any discussion so that the dwarrows who passed them in the tunnels were all in relatively clean, unworn clothing, carrying shinier pickaxes, and sporting long, bushy beards that hid the girth (or lack thereof) in their middles. It was as well choreographed as the spontaneous song and dance the Company had performed in Bilbo’s kitchen all those years ago.

It was a similar orchestration that greeted them at market. The vendors became suspiciously quiet about their produce prices and politely refused to let Bilbo pay at the kiosk, citing that the few odd purchases he’d made would be charged to the crown. 

If Gimli had not have told him the truth, Bilbo wasn’t sure if he’d have realized it was all an act. But how desperate were things?

If Dain and Dwalin were willing to ask the King to marry someone when he very clearly didn’t want to, then the situation had to be desperate. 

Bilbo didn’t get to see the truth for himself until the day his map of Erebor was functionally complete. Gimli allowed him to choose their path through the mountain. And, of course, Bilbo chose one that would take them in the most roundabout way on a visit to every member of the Company in all the different landscapes of Erebor.

They found Balin in the ring of offices some levels down, then Ori in the library, Bifur amongst the Carvers, Bofur in the mines, Bombur in the kitchens, Dwalin at the gate, Fili and Kili practicing their metalwork at the forges, Gloin at the accountants’ offices near the treasury, Oin in the infirmary, Dori at his teashop trying to ignore the Weavers on his day off as Guildmaster, and Nori found them after having noticed the pattern. Thorin was the only dwarf that escaped their exploration.

They’d tried the throne room, the council rooms (none had been in session), Thorin’s quarters (which also happened to be right next door to the Consort’s rooms and likely connected in similar fashion by hidden entrances), and they’d passed by the office.

“Why is there no guard here?” Bilbo asked, checking his map just to be sure he was standing in the right place.

Gimli shrugged. “It’s not as if anyone can get in. The door’s sealed from the inside. Even on days when the king is present, if the door is locked, no guard is needed. Dwarven locks, don’t ya know?” He tapped the side of his nose and looked off into the distance meaningfully as if to reference the secret entrance into the treasury.

“Of course,” Bilbo nodded, dismissively and continued on at a brisk pace, trying not to let on just how useful this information would be. Finally, he had a way to get out from under Thorin’s well-meaning but stifling thumb. 

That very same evening, just before the dinner bell, Bilbo slipped out wearing his ring through Thorin’s office. The lock clicked shut behind him.

And, oh, that sharp sound startled Bilbo mightily. Because if the door was locked, how was he going to get back in? He’d thought about the problem wrong. Wanting to see the dwarrows’ rations at dinner after a long work day, he’d considered now to be the best time to slip out for a quick peek. 

Except, he’d forgotten that his own presence would be required at dinner. And Gimli, as his guard, would be expected to arrive at his side. Cursing his own lack of foresight, Bilbo wrung his hands in indecision. If continued his sneaking now, there would be no getting around Thorin a second time. He’d post a guard at this door and that would end Bilbo’s wandering. If he quit and went around to his door, Gimli would see him and know he’d snuck out – be it for a momen or a few hours. Bilbo would have to ask for Gimli’s silence, which would come at the cost of disobeying his king’s direct order. 

Asking some random guard who didn’t know better would have been easier than asking Gloin’s son for such a favor. Because either in agreement or disagreement to Bilbo’s request, Gimli would be put in a bad position. Either he’d have to turn Bilbo in and he might feel guilty for not guessing Bilbo’s guard question earlier in the day would lead to this. On the other hand, agreeing to silence meant going against the King. Might mean losing Thorin’s trust if it ever came out. They’d both be in trouble. He’d be considered a conspirator, particularly since Bilbo would need to do this again to check the fields and would likely need to ask for Gimli’s silence a second time.

Oh, what a mess. 

It became clear to Bilbo that he wouldn’t have a second chance to sneak out. He couldn’t risk getting Gimli in trouble and refused to put the burden of this decision on Gimli’s shoulders. So, rather than sneaking off twice during the day, he would have to sneak off once and accomplish both his goals. 

Which meant checking the fields after dinner. 

In the dark. 

When it was cold outside. 

Bother and darnation! Bilbo kicked the door angrily. Which honestly hurt his toes more than the solid sheet of movable rock. He tried to console himself with the thought that it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission from one as stubborn as Thorin. And this night could only end in asking for forgiveness. He didn’t really want to see Thorin’s reaction when he turned up missing. 

With a shudder, he pulled out his sheets of map-drawing parchment and ripped off a trailing end. With the charcoal he scrawled a short note to Thorin that only said Please don’t fret. I’ll be back later tonight. And slipped it into the mail slot that dumped missives safely on the other side of Thorin’s door. 

Steeling his courage, Bilbo headed down to the lower level refectories where the dwarrows without families took their meals in companionable rowdiness. He chose one at random and picked a full table in a corner to huddle close to, hiding his shadow amongst the silhouettes of pillars. No one noticed him as he bobbed his head over shoulders of dwarrows just sitting down with a helping to see what it consisted of. 

Meager was the only word to describe their rations. Half a potato, a thin slice of meat, a spoon full of Brussel sprouts that most of the dwarrows ate with fingers plugging their noses, and with a mug full of thickened broth – the kind Bilbo remembered making on the road to Erebor at the almost-worst (better-than-Mirkwood) times. 

No wonder the refectory was so full. Bilbo spotted families with dwarflings starting to crowd at the tables, apparently looking for distraction and solidarity in the noisy surroundings. 

Shaking his head, Bilbo wondered how much worse the situation was expected to get before the fields began to produce enough to feed Erebor, Dale, and their livestock. 

Slipping out again, Bilbo followed his maps (it made him swell a bit in pride as he continued to remain not-lost) to the front gate. Finding a way out of the mountain would have been the larger obstacle if it weren’t for Bilbo’s intimate knowledge with this part of Erebor.

Yes, the gate was fixed, its shape reset in a more permanent construct. But it was still the same gate he’d nearly been thrown over. Once upon a time, during what Bilbo called the Arkenstone Incident, he’d distracted himself sneaking out over it by counting the number of times he gripped the rope. 67 times. It had taken strength, balance, and patience to climb down it. To climb up it, only knowing that each handhold was getting closer to 67 (only 67, it’s just 67) had kept Bilbo from giving up, his strength nearly failing as his Laketown-cold-weakened arms.

Even so many years later, he remembers and counts out the length of rope from a stockpile in a store room at the side of the gate. He tied the rope to one of the toothy stones fencing the ramparts above the gate in a corner where none of the guards would notice it, but where the foot-traffic was heavy enough that an intruder, if one climbed up the rope, would be caught.

He climbed down with unbearable slowness and made his way towards Dale and the valleys of fields beyond. It wasn’t easy getting there, particularly through the greyed world of his magic ring. But eventually, with his muscles cramping and his breath stuttering in the cold wind, he reached the border where carriage-sized, stone-paved roads turned into rough foot paths that led into the fields. 

Not that Bilbo could much tell the difference between where the field was supposed to be planted and where the ground had been left bare for field workers to tread. Patchy tufts of wheat stalks or corn rows or radish bundles littered the rolling horizon, but even where greenery had managed to catch a foothold, it still looked sparse and sickly. 

Swallowing hard at the terrifying view of bare lands where there should have been plenty, Bilbo rubbed his hands together and stepped into the raised soil of the field. He wiggled his toes into the ground, bent to dig his fingers into the earth, raked his hands backward and lay down carefully. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, Bilbo was immediately overcome by a feeling of wrongness. 

The ground felt bereft – more like mute dust than rich earth. The seedlings couldn’t grow in starvation. Some of the strong, more ambitious seeds had grasped all the minerals they could and grown weakly to breach the surface but there weren’t enough nutrients in the soil. And they were the wrong nutrients so even the newly grown produce was coming out of the ground wrong.

Lifting himself out of the shallow imprint he’d created in the dirt and smoothing it over to hide he’d been here, Bilbo wondered how the Consort could have allowed such rancid soil to cover these fields. But then again, how had the Consort gotten trampled to death? Something was wrong in Erebor. 

As he climbed the rope (slowly, painfully, with shaking muscles) back up and over the gate, Bilbo tried to envision the conversation he needed to have with Thorin. Even in his thoughts, it didn’t go well. Mostly, he imagined His Royal Highness would start yelling before Bilbo could insert a word in edgewise. And even if he got a chance to explain his findings, Thorin’s solution would probably be drastic and involve a lot of guards. Maybe he should go to Balin first? 

Balin would probably listen to the whole story and help him plan the launch of investigations into the state of the fields and (possibly) the Consort’s death. Bilbo stopped in a hallway, sitting down in a corner, and tried to decide who to go to first.

And promptly found himself nearly trampled under the heavy, plodding feet of panicked dwarves. They were grumbling to each other, their words intelligible to Bilbo even with the Ring. “Keep looking!” a gruff dwarrowdam at the end of the tramping line shouted.

“Keep looking!” the rest intoned, eyes glued to the ground and searching out corners. They stared at Bilbo and he couldn’t help but flinch at the attention, though he knew they didn’t see him. The party moved on. 

For a few moments, Bilbo settled into his space. But soon enough, another column of dwarrows tromped through his hall. This group looked more downtrodden, but their eyes continued to search the ground. Even going so far as to ruffle the decorative curtains. “Still nothing,” said a young dwarrow, just growing into his first post-tuft of beard. 

Bilbo scrunched up his nose, wondering if they were looking for some nobleman’s trinket. He avoided the next group of distressed dwarrows. He’d had just about enough of lost jewelry for a lifetime. He shuddered at the mere reminder of Gollum hissing after his lost ring and Thorin baring his teeth at his friends over a shiny stone.

Nope, Bilbo refused to get involved. Besides, he was on a mission.

Except, it wasn’t just a few servants looking. Bilbo passed a mixed group of nobles, stone polishers, gear craftsmen, weavers, and hearth tenders, all puffing from their vigorous effort and squabbling over most efficient search strategies. Only way so many dwarrow could be involved in this…this mayhem would be if they were looking for something for the King.

And what was the King missing right at this moment?

Bilbo suppressed a groan. He’d left a note precisely so this wouldn’t happen. Now he didn’t have a choice for who to see first. Only Thorin could stop this manhunt.

Briefly, Bilbo considered stopping it himself. Simply appearing before the masses or popping up at Dwalin’s side, offering with feigned ignorance to help look for whatevers missing. He was Consort, after all. But whose reaction was he more likely to survive? Dwalin’s or Thorin’s? 

One dwarf thought Bilbo stood between starving kingdoms and bountiful alliances that could possilbly result in little, royal dwarflings. The other dwarf loved him.

All signs point to Thorin.

With a slowness born of anxiety, Bilbo followed his maps back to Thorin’s office. He found the door ajar, the fireplace casting its glow into the hallway.

With great care, Bilbo slipped through the gap, still wearing the ring, thinking he’d gauge Thorin’s level of rage and plan the best approach based on his findings. But, immediately as Bilbo cleared the threshold, he saw a large shadow move and the door slammed shut. Hands seized Bilbo by the lapels of his overcoat and pinned him against the stone-locked entrance. “Reveal yourself, Bilbo,” Thorin growled very close to his ear.

Bilbo gaped at the King, even as his fingers moved to obey his command. “Pray tell, how do you know of this?”

Thorin snorted. “Admittedly, I was deeply troubled and distracted throughout the quest. Perhaps I gave you the wrong impression early on, but I must inform you, I happen to be terribly observant. Little in this kingdom slips past my notice – particularly with Nori as Spymaster. Do you really think I was married to a disappearing hobbit and never guessed he could turn invisible?”

Bilbo’s alarm must have shown on his face because, for a moment, Thorin’s anger cracked. “Hush, I kept your people’s secret. I have shared this knowledge with no one. Not even the wizard.” 

It took a lot of effort on Bilbo’s part to keep his eyebrows from rising in surprise. So Thorin didn’t know about the Ring. Strangely, Bilbo felt torn between relief and an unpleasant degree of guilt for letting his Most Cherished believe such falsehoods. Rather than addressing his feelings, Bilbo tilted his head to meet Thorin’s eyes.

“Well, it seems my shadow’s betrayed me. Now that I’m caught, what are you going to do to me?” Bilbo didn’t mean for the words to come out so suggestive, but with his voice still breathy from the climb up the gate.

Thorin chuckled darkly. “Oh, there’s plenty I’d like to do to you.” 

Bilbo shivered at the smoky, half-threatening baritone of his voice.

“But what happens next vastly depends on your answer. Where were you?”

“Before I say, you should call off the search. Honestly, I can’t believe you have the whole kingdom looking. I left you a note.”

Thorin snorted. “Oh, yes, how could I forget your note? Please don’t fret, Bilbo. I’m sure I’ll be very understanding of the risks you took as soon as you tell me why you decided to sneak off without a word to anyone like a recalcitrant dwarfling.!” 

“You’re impossible.” Bilbo scowled. “Which also happens to be the reason I had to leave Gimli behind. I didn’t want to force the poor dwarf to disobey your unreasonable commands.” 

Thorin stilled, a terrible understanding beginning to enter his gaze. “Unreasonable commands,” he repeated. “Gimli told me you wanted to see the lower levels as they really are. But that’s not all you wanted to see, is it?” His voice had dropped to a hush, which was what made it all the more startling when he bellowed, “IS IT?!” 

Bilbo felt Thorin’s fists tighten around the material they were clutching and it seemed that he was lightly shaking Bilbo, but that wasn’t right…no, Thorin’s arms were shaking. His breathing had changed as well, turning wispy and thin. Not waiting for Bilbo to fess up, he said, with absolute certainty. “You went to the fields. Out into the dark. Into the cold,” he cupped Bilbo’s cheek with incongruous gentleness, as if to confirm the chill on his skin. “Without even a single guard.” He choked a little. “Tell me, Bilbo, is this your answer, then? Does my heart mean so little to you?”

Stunned by the sudden shift in the tone of their…conversation, Bilbo didn’t recognize for a long second what Thorin was referencing. But then he remembered the courtship. “Oh, gracious no! That’s not what this was about at all! In fact, it’s because I treasure your heart so much that I knew I had to see the fields. I overheard what Dwalin and Dain asked of you and I know how much it must hurt having your feelings for me be at odds with what’s best for the kingdom. But I don’t think they’ll have to be at odds for long. See, we hobbits have a certain affinity for green things and that affinity is reciprocated. So much so that the earth and its produce awaken at our hobbity insistence. I can help you heal the lands, Thorin. But only if you let me go there.”

Thorin looked…wrecked. Even though Bilbo was the one pinned to the door, it was Thorin who looked helpless and rundown. “You ask too much of me. Do you not understand? I cannot lose you again. I have this terrible premonition that if you return to the fields I will lose you again.”

Bilbo bit his lip. “You know, I don’t think you’re wrong.”

Thorin blinked, as if he’d expected confirmation that his feelings were irrational and overprotective. “Pardon?”

“I suppose you must not have known to feel suspicious, but the way your Consort died was…preposterous.” He explained briefly about his childhood in the fields of the Shire and his knowledge of plow horses. “And it’s not only that! Your fields feel sick. As if someone is deliberately feeding rubbish into the ground. There isn’t a chance in all of Arda that the Consort would have left the people he was working with so poorly uninformed about proper fieldwork to explain this much damage.” 

Thorin stiffened. “You are implying…”

“That someone deliberately found a way to kill your Consort and damaged your fields.”


	8. Tainted Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation continues. But there's more trouble on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for your feedback and comments. It's what motivates me to continue so thank you all, even if its just the simplest of encouragements. Cheers and happy week's tail end!

“Due to his long absence while he was in healing, Consort Baggins has decided to journey to the Shire to reunite with his family. He is already on the road as we speak,” Thorin announced to his court, knowing the news would spread to the lower levels.

Princess Irena wasn’t openly smiling, but she looked so serene in this moment, as if basking in a private success. 

“May Mahal watch over him in his travels and the Green Lady rejuvenate him during his family reunion. He will be sorely missed and we shall with eager impatience await his return.”

There was murmuring in the hall. Thorin was proud to see dissatisfaction amongst most of the dwarrow. He knew they still held Bilbo dear. Despite being a foreigner, Bilbo had been adopted as hero and champion of Erebor. He’d been immortalized in songs and, out on the mountain, overlooking the oak tree, there stood a small field of stone, metal, coal, and jeweled flowers – no two of which had been made by the same dwarf. Most did not like having their hobbit so far from home, naturally possessive of the Consort. 

The problem was the small minority who hid behind feigned disappointment at hearing Bilbo was out of the mountain. Thorin knew some of them, thanks in part to Dwalin and Nori, but after hearing Bilbo’s theories, he suspected there were more. And they were not disgruntled miners or frustrated cooks. The confidence, motives, and sense of entitlement it took to plot such a high-profile murder, the dwarrow involved had to be both wealthy and influential. 

As Thorin scanned faces in the crowd, he wondered who would dare. Who would dare hurt the people he loved? Who would dare to risk the safety of the kingdom, particularly those with the most to lose? Who would dare?! WHO WOULD DARE?! 

A small hand curled into the back of Thorin’s robes and gave a soft tug. 

Thorin breathed in deep and dismissed the assembly before leaning gently into the hand no one saw. “And now we wait,” he whispered.

Bilbo leaned into him from behind, but it wasn’t enough. Thorin wanted Bilbo safe, present, and visible in his arms. He hated not seeing Bilbo and hated the plan they’d concocted to catch the traitors. 

He wondered if it would work. Balin thought they’d take advantage of the opportunity to attack Bilbo while he was out of the mountain, vulnerable to anonymous attack. The caravan Bilbo was supposedly traveling in on his way to the Shire was designed to look light and nimble, as expected of caravans meant for crossing over the Misty Mountains. Just a few soldiers loaded with only as much shielding and weaponry as a pony could carry.

Instead, there were two groups of soldiers. The first had left a week ago on a fake, month long scouting mission. The second was traveling with a smaller dwarrowdam soldier playing the role of Bilbo to meet group one. And both were armed to the teeth, since they didn’t need the incredible number of supplies required on a trip into the West. 

If the traitors took the bait, they might have answers in a few weeks’ time. Unfortunately, to Thorin’s chagrin, Bilbo was not content to simply hide in his rooms and wait. He wanted to properly investigate the matter, following the most likely suspects, spying on conversations, helping Nori and his network of spies in any way possible. 

It was maddening to know Bilbo was in danger and there was nothing he could do to keep him safe. It was a powerless feeling, knowing he was King, highest in the land, and still there was nothing he could do to aide his beautifully stubborn hobbit.

Instead of standing in the darkest shadows at Bilbo’s side, Thorin was stuck pretending nothing was wrong. Or, really, his occupation was worse than that. He was to act sad and lonely in order to bait the Blacklock princess into coming to him. He was either to divine from some subtext in their conversations if she was involved with the traitors or if not, he was to act as the distraction for the actual people pulling strings, make them think their plans were working and tempt them into getting sloppy. 

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Thorin knew this wasn’t the job for him. He didn’t know how to be subtle. He had no patience for pretend. It was the reason Bilbo, Balin, and Fili had often taken charge of diplomatic initiatives. So, when Princess Irena offered him a sweet smile, it was all Thorin could do not to bare his teeth.

She approached as the rest of the assembly filtered out, managing a sultry sashay despite her strong dwarrowdam frame. “My King,” she said, her voice soft with sympathy. “It has not been a day and you already look so lonely.” She eased close to him. “If it affects you so, why did you let him leave?” she asked, but with no real curiosity.

Thorin swallowed his revulsion as he felt her fingers trace the tendons up his forearm. “You make sacrifices for the one you love,” he answered, more for his own sake than to answer her question. He had to remind himself that this was necessary. His kingdom was at stake. But instinct was not something he could shrug off either. 

To let Bilbo wander in the shadows, exposed to countless dangers…he was no longer the gold mad dwarf who’d denied his One and allowed him to enter the dragon’s hoard. It was an intolerable itch under his skin, knowing just how vulnerable Bilbo was, invisible or not. He wanted to drag his Consort into his rooms and lock him up safe and tight. 

But Bilbo would not be the hobbit he loved if he didn’t fly in the face of Thorin’s deranged and selfish impulses. There wasn’t a reality in which Bilbo would let himself be slave to Thorin’s protective paranoia, especially when it was love that drove him to want to help save the mountain that was their mutual home. And so, Thorin in turn could now admit that he loved enough to allow the risks Bilbo wanted to take. His sacrifice was the control he’d normally have in influencing the plans through which issues like these would be investigated. 

But his resolve needed constant bolstering. Thorin knew his weaknesses. Few times in his life had he truly coveted something, let alone someone. And in each of those times, his pursuit had been relentless and utterly selfish. Even the first time around, with the Bilbo who had lived his whole life in this version of Arda, he’d done everything possible to corner Bilbo into staying. His offerings had come in modest luxuries, like an indoor garden, rooms to resemble Bag End, food and spice imports from all over the world. He’d given Bilbo tasks designed to weave him into the tapestry of their lives, making him interact with the dwarrow who would hail him as Consort and having him spearhead rehoming efforts. 

It wasn’t until their honeymoon that Bilbo revealed he’d seen through Thorin’s erratic gifts and targeted assignments. But he’d loved Thorin too much to feel offended over the thought that the King had hoped to trick him into staying with a slow seduction of his heart and stomach.   
Princess Irena held out a flask to Thorin. “My King, won’t you drink with me in honor of Mahal? May he bring your beloved back safe and sound.”

With a sigh of upset, Thorin took a long swig of the draught. Almost instantly, his mind turned soft and fuzzy at the corners. He actually found himself smiling. “What issis?” he asked, wrinkling his nose at the words, sensing they’d come out wrong, but unsure of what they should be. 

Princess Irena cupped the hand in which Thorin held the flask. “Drink, my King,” she said softly. “Your One deserves all the luck that can be spared. The world, after all, is such a dangerous place.” 

Thorin nodded, at the same time noticing that even the slightest tilt of his head made the room spin. “Yes, yes. Very dangerous,” he said, eyes fluttering with sleep. 

All the while, Princess Irena just continued to smile with sweet softness. Never once did she drink of the flask. 

 

Despite what Thorin suspected, Bilbo really was trying to be careful. He wasn’t just aimlessly wandering through the roughest tunnels of the mountain. In fact, most often, he was securely accompanied by Nori or one of his apprentices. He hardly ever needed to use the Ring to get close enough to eavesdrop on suspicious people. 

And the times he did use it, he wasn’t in any danger of getting caught when the lights were so dim, the patrons so drunk, the rowdy dwarrows so loud. Getting caught wasn’t their biggest obstacle in this game. 

No, the hardest part was locating the right people to follow. 

Who would have motivation to starve the mountain? Certainly, not anyone from the poorer classes who’d have no chance of weathering the storm. And no intelligent cutthroats would agree to do it in exchange for the money of the wealthier class, because suspicion would rain down on them if it didn’t look like they were starving as much as their neighbors. In fact, not even all the gold in Erebor was worth starving the kingdoms, because it wasn’t just a simple crime. This was treachery. 

Treason.

The penalty would be death.

The only motivation that made sense was political. 

But, though that narrowed the suspect pool, it still left a good many dwarrow in a settlement this size and that was ignoring all the possible suspects residing in Dale, or Mirkwood, or the Grey Mountains. The Blacklocks had the most motivation currently to be in Erebor, but the fields had been failing from nearly the start of the venture, way before the Blacklocks ever entered the picture. There had only been one successful harvest – the first – and even during that time, anything involved with the process had run into hardship and misfortune. From missing scythes to broken wagons to split grain bags – according to the records, getting the food to market had been a cursed task in itself. 

So, who had had the motivation back then? 

Bilbo had posed this question to the Company. Their response? Frowny faces and complaints that they hardly remembered last week’s council meetings, let alone those of a few years ago. Ori and Balin had needed to search their old notes looking for anyone who had seemed to incite debate and arguments. Usually, the person pulling the strings didn’t do the dirty work – just planted the seeds of dissention.

From their research, Nori had worked with Dwalin to create a priority queue of persons of interest. And at the top of that list was Dain Ironfoot. 

He’d been the one pushing hardest for Thorin to tie himself to the Blacklock princess. It was also his dwarrows getting rich off Erebor’s coffers as its main supplier of foodstuffs ever since the fields failed. And Dwalin, Dis, and Thorin, who knew their relative best of the company, agreed that Dain, like most traditionalist dwarrows, didn’t believe that Mahal could have split a soul and given half of it to one of the other Valar. He probably didn’t believe Thorin had found his One in Bilbo. Maybe he even considered it to be a perversion, though Bilbo strongly suspected his disapproval had little to do with Mahal. More likely, he still remembered that time just before the battle, when Bilbo had stolen the Arkenstone. A betrayal was a betrayal was a betrayal in the eyes of traditional dwarrow, which had been part of the reason Biblo hadn’t stayed with his Ereborian friends in his own version of Arda. And speaking of betrayal, if the people of Erebor grew frustrated and desperate enough, they could begin to act out against Thorin. With Fili, Kili, and Dis so closely related to Thorin, in both blood and behavior, there was the slimmest chance that Dain could take the throne at the beckoning of the dwarrow nobility.

But so, as the dwarrow with the most possible motives to be pulling the strings on the situation in Erebor, Dain was first on the list of suspicious people to investigate. And it was the reason that found Bilbo, for the third time this week, hiding beneath the pub table Dain and his most devoted advisors, Bogart and Digart, were sat at. 

Usually, they enjoyed their brews in companionable silence as they recovered from another fruitless day of attempting to change Thorin’s mind concerning the Blacklock princess. But, following the announcement that Bilbo was away to the Shire, there was a different atmosphere hanging over the group.

One of charged excitement and unrealized possibilities. 

Ring on his finger, Bilbo listened at the head of the table to their muttered conversations in ancient Khuzdul. 

“So, the Halfling’s finally up and left. Do you think it’s the result of some disagreement with the King?” Bogart asked.

“Yes, did you see the King’s discomfiture during the announcement? He looked most displeased and rather uncomfortable, but not aggrieved in the way of spouses missing their other halves,” Digart commented, smacking his ale-wetted lips in satisfaction.

Dain sighed deeply. “How can ye honestly think Thorin and ‘is Half-pint are arguin’? Didn’ye notice how proud he looked when he saw how much his kingdom would miss ‘is Consort?” 

Bogart puffed up, disgruntled. “He spoke to the Princess as soon as the assembly dispersed,” he pointed out, sloshing his drink with as he gestured. 

Dain looked ready to argue, but then he paused. “Aye. Me cousin’s not known for indulgin’ pouty princesses. Wonder why he did that?”

“Ah, he’s probably starting to notice her ample charms,” Digart grinned, unconcerned.   
Dain frowned into his ale. “I’m not convinced we’re doing right by pressin’ Irena on Thorin. ‘e seems happy with his Half-pint. Maybe if we can turn her attention to other, well-off dwarrows, the Grey Mountains might settle – ”

“Oh, no no no,” Bogart said, fiercely waving his flagon. “How can we trust such an important contract without assuring its stability with blood? Do you want to see your cousin’s kingdom starve?”

“Do you doubt the honorability of the Blacklocks?” Dain growled.

Digart raised his hands. “There’s no need to argue. He’s spending time with her. It’s what we wanted. Let’s see where it leads.” They finished their ales while Bilbo tried to keep himself still. He was shuddering with anger. Half-pint? They dared call him Half-pint when they themselves felt affronted at any mention elves or men made of their height! 

And what was this about wanting Thorin and Princess Irena together? As far as they knew, Thorin was still married to his One. After the group left the pub, Bilbo stomped his way over to Nori at his lookout post, gave his report, and silently stomped his way up to Thorin’s suite. 

He was in desperate want of a cuddle. He wanted to feel Thorin’s strength, wanted to feel embraced and reassured. Like he belonged. 

But when he entered Thorin’s rooms, he was met with a gaze that looked upon him as if he were a stranger. There was an unnatural, foggy confusion in Thorin’s expression that for a solid minute refused to dissipate. He blinked repeatedly, staring at Bilbo like his eyes couldn’t focus.

“Th-thorin?” Bilbo called out, frozen at the door with fright.

“Ah…Bilbo…my heart,” Thorin seemed to relax by degrees. Then with a smile, he surged to his feet and stalked over to Bilbo. Without hesitation or the awkward gentleness of dealing with a different version of his Consort’s soul, Thorin pulled him close and sealed his lips over Bilbo’s. 

Alarmed, Bilbo tried to pull away, but behind him was the door. 

Thorin licked his way into his mouth, whispering between kisses, “Ghivasheluh. Sanurzud. Mizimeluh.”

Bilbo didn’t need the Ring to recognize the endearments. He’d heard them from this Thorin before, but not like this. This was too fast. He felt Thorin’s hands dipping into the folds of his tunic and tracing crevices. “Th-thorin…stop, Thorin. This is too…t-too much,” Bilbo whimpered, trying to avoid a moan. “Thorin, I…there’s something wrong. Y-you’re not yourself.”

But Thorin didn’t seem to be listening, his lips tracing Bilbo’s ears, tongue flickering over the folded tips.

Annoyed, Bilbo stood on his tip toes, leaned in, and sunk his teeth into Thorin’s collarbone. 

Thorin’s head bobbed up in surprise. “You bit me.”

“And you deserved it. I’m not dessert. You can’t just lick me up like so much cream. And since when are we at this stage of our…relationship?”

Eyes narrowing, Thorin still looked confused. But he blinked a few more times, let his gaze wander the room, and suddenly gasped. Horror flooded his expression and he grabbed Bilbo by the shoulders gently. “Oh, Bilbo, mizimeluh, are you alright?”

Cocking an eyebrow, Bilbo nodded slowly. “Of course. Are you?”

Thorin’s cheeks seemed to heat at the same time his shoulders lifted defensively. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but for a moment there, I honestly forgot we were…” his voice trailed off, but Bilbo knew what he meant. 

“You forgot? How is that even possible?” Bilbo asked. 

What in the world was going on in Erebor?


	9. Losing Oneself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has an idea about how to catch the Field Despoilers. And he's starting to guess why Thorin looks at him like a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the short chapter, but I figured it would be a good split - separate the plan from the action and make some conjectures about the Blacklock Princess.  
> Thank you so much for comments and feedback. I can promise at least this much. If Thorin was being properly roofied with all that the term entails, there would be more warnings in the text.  
> Happy Thanksgiving!

Today, as most days in recent memory, Bilbo waited outside of Thorin’s office rather than by the warm hearth inside it. He didn’t want to repeat the first and second time he had surprised Thorin with his presence. If it weren’t for Bilbo’s magic ring, Thorin would have taken his head off with one well-placed blow. 

For some reason, be it exhaustion or heightened paranoia, Thorin seemed to have strange lapses in memory. It usually took him a moment to realize he was attempting to attack his Consort. 

It worried Bilbo, but no one else complained of Thorin confronting them as if they were strangers. He’d tried mentioning it to Balin, but the aged advisor had simply patted his hand and placated him with accounts of Thorin’s dealings with advisors, councilors, and grievances throughout the kingdom. 

In fact, Thorin was often so busy that the investigation of the murder of this Arda’s Bilbo fell mostly to Dwalin. 

Sighing, Bilbo tried not to take Thorin’s inattention in the matter personally. Reprimanding himself for being so selfish, Bilbo continued his wait, report in hand for all the dwarrows they’d been investigating. 

There wasn’t much to convey. There were no nefarious discussions underway, be it in barrooms or in private. And, unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be much for them to discuss. Winter was fast approaching, so whoever was responsible for ruining the fields, nature would ensure Erebor and Dale’s dependence on food imports from the South since their personal stores were nearly nonexistent. 

But Bilbo had a plan to not only get the conversation started again, but to catch the field defilers in the act. He’d presented the plan to Balin, who had praised him for the idea at the same time as he said it would be impossible to get Thorin to agree to it. Which would have been true a few weeks ago. Now, however…well, Bilbo supposed this would be the true test of whether there was something wrong with Thorin.

As soon as the King appeared in the hall, Gimli clapped him on the shoulder and took his leave. He was always respectful of their space. Always cleared out to give them privacy. 

Bilbo wished he could call him back to act as witness. But then again, Thorin was a King, born and bred. Even in moments as his beaky nose wrinkled in confusion at Bilbo’s presence amidst the Company, he didn’t outright say anything rude. He was simply more polite, more formal. As one would be to a foreign dignitary, not the person you were courting. 

“Ah, Master Baggins, did you have an appointment?” 

Bilbo twitched in surprise. He hadn’t even considered that he would need to make appointments, as if he were one of the councilors hounding for Thorin’s time. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid not. I will remember in future to consult with Balin about scheduling meetings, but this matter is quite important. If you could spare a few minutes, I would be most grateful.”

Thorin gestured Bilbo through his door, leaving his guards outside. At least he did not yet consider Bilbo a threat. Likely because he knew a hobbit’s strength could never match a dwarf’s. Honestly, what was going on?

“I don’t mean to rush you, Master Baggins, but it has been a long day and I was hoping to retire soon.” 

“Yes, of course.” Bilbo cleared his throat as Thorin took out a flask and made himself comfortable in an armchair by the fire. 

“Winter is here and whoever’s been destroying the fields is free to sit back and watch nature do their job for a season. There’s no reason for them to discuss plans when they won’t need to enact them till the spring. But we could give them a reason. I wanted to propose an idea. By your leave, I could go out in the day and pretend to perform an elaborate ritual. Nori and his legion of spies could then help spread the rumor that hobbits have magic that can make fields fertile and healthy all year long. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince the dwarrows, since just about the only thing they know about hobbits is that they eat seven meals a day. All that food must come from somewhere.”

Thorin took a drink from his flask, eyes at half-mast. He didn’t look particularly excited about the plan, but he was nodding. 

Bilbo continued. “Nori could then listen for rumors in the mountain, and I could go out into the fields after the ritual and, hidden in the dark, watch for sabotage. If someone tries to defile the field again, I will see them.”

“But you know so few dwarrows in the mountain. How will you identify them?”

“I am very good at sketching.”

Thorin did not shout or argue. He sat in contemplative silence and drank from his flask. The shine of the metal caught Bilbo’s eye. In the firelight, the crest of the Blacklocks was very prominent.

“Forgive my curiosity, but what are you drinking?” Bilbo asked, eyeing the flask.

“A mead from the Grey Mountains gifted to me by the princess,” Thorin said, distracted. “Your idea has merit. Have you spoken to anyone else about it?”

“Balin,” Bilbo named, shortly. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from that flask. How long had Thorin been drinking from it? How regularly was it being replenished? And, most importantly, was it really mead? 

“What did he think of your plan?”

“He thought it would work.”

“Then why didn’t he present it to me?” Thorin asked, suspicious of the break in protocol.

Bilbo snorted. “He thought you would say no. Because it would be me sitting out in the field after dark.”

“Ah, yes, indeed. You do seem rather fragile. But I think hardy enough for such an assignment. After all, it’s not as if you are going to confront the traitors. You are merely going to sketch their visages.” 

“So, you approve?” Bilbo asked, not even surprised that Balin was wrong. 

“Yes. Anything you need, coordinate with Balin. Be it financing, weaponry, guardsmen, supplies. There is no priority greater than restoring the food supply and catching the traitors who would see our kingdoms starve.” There was finality in his tone. 

A subtle dismissal that had Bilbo bowing and exiting the room. These days, he never entered his rooms through Thorin’s office. He had a funny feeling that Thorin didn’t even remember that Bilbo’s rooms were on the other side of the tapestry. 

And Bilbo suspected Thorin’s sudden memory loss had much to do with that flask. That night, wearing his magic ring, he entered Thorin’s office and found the flask on the desk. Carrying it down to the kitchens, he poured the contents into a drain, washed it, and replaced the suspicious liquid with Erebor’s mead, careful to only replace as much as he had poured out. And he was determined to do so every night until the Blacklocks were out of the mountain and the flask could safely be stolen without risk of being replaced with another.


	10. An Enemy Grown From Seed To Oak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The caravan returns, an enemy is revealed (both to much and to no surprise), and Thorin surfaces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can honestly say this chapter was entirely motivated by people's comments. I don't normally have good writing practices (any advice on improvement?) so I'm inconsistent with how and when I put type to a word document. Thanks so much guys for reading and for letting me know your thoughts. Sorry for any mistakes. I'm liable to have made a lot of them.  
> Cheers

“I’m sorry, sire. The mission was a failure,” one of the troop lieutenants said, bowing low. The rest of the dwarrows who had been part of the caravan hoping to catch the treasonous parties slowly trickled in through the front gate, some of them laid out on stretchers and covered in bandages.

Thorin didn’t really respond. He swayed in place and blinked a lot. He was less coherent now than when he’d been consuming the drugged mead. Most likely because he drank so much of it now. And maybe, Bilbo hoped, because he was starting to fight whatever was holding his memories at bay.

Balin gave Thorin a few seconds to respond before prompting the lieutenant to report his findings while Dwalin crowded closer to hear. 

“We had to turn back before we ever got to the checkpoint and we met no suspicious dwarrows, elves, or men on our journey. The road was quiet and uneventful up until we were beset by orcs. 

With the exception of Thorin, there seemed to be a collective sigh over the fact that the plan had failed. 

“Well, laddie, it seems that we’ll have to announce that you’ve given up a trip to the Shire for the time being,” Balin said, already marking a time in the King’s itinerary.

“And get started on the new plan,” Nori added, appearing from behind a bronzed statue of a roaring dwarrowdam, sword held aloft. 

“Well, might as well do it in one fell swoop. We can host the ritual at the same time as the announcement. I’ll tell them it was during my travels that I read through my mother’s book of hobbit secrets and discovered the secret to planting in winter that most gentlehobbits are never told. Then we can have a procession out into the fields. I’ll pretend to do some magic. And Nori, if you’d be so kind as to begin feeding the rumor mill.” 

It took no time at all to organize the event, given the Company’s unique and diverse set of skills. Particularly with Bombur bribing everyone with food from the kitchens – still not much, but better than nothing – and Fili and Kili drumming up interest through sporadic songs that made standing in the cold watching someone hop and chant sound like great fun.

The day of the official announcement and ritual, however, Bilbo was nervous. He did not like being the center of attention. He stumbled through his speech, tripped his way out of the mountain at the head of innumerable dwarrows, and then made an utter fool of himself out in the snow dusted fields, much to the snickering delight of Bofur and Kili. 

It was a good thing that the dwarrows were not much for recreational outdoor activities that did not include killing things or practicing to kill things. Midway through his “ritual”, Bilbo’s creativity failed him and he wound up on his back, making muddy snow angels and singing a hobbit-known Shire ditty about spring blooms. And, thankfully, none of the men of Dale had deigned to attend. Not that Balin had made much effort to inform them.

“Do you think they fell for it?” Kili asked, as soon as it was over and they were behind closed doors. 

Nori popped in through a ceiling vent. “Oh, I can assure ye they did. There’s hope in the lower halls. Already, they’s singin’ of a time when their bellies will be full again. And I’ll make sure they keep singin’.”

“Guess I’d better rest then,” Bilbo muttered, his bags already packed with blankets and dried foods, tea, and metal lined pouches waiting to be filled with warmed rocks. His observation of the fields began that night. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thorin stumbled through his days feeling half-awake. Faces, meetings, dark corners, a Princess on his arm, meals, and a small Creature with big feet. Every day was muddy, but the pattern was so consistent that each day felt like the day before. People asked him questions. He answered with yesterday’s answers. The world felt shaky and strange, then so very smooth. Until it felt like he was swimming through moments, experiencing none of them. 

For a while, he wondered. Was the dragon ever real? Did he imagine Azog killing his grandfather? Was there a quest? No, no quest. As much as diplomacy with the Elves of Mirkwood rankled, Thranduil was their ally. He had to have imagined the betrayal, the imprisonment, the scene at the Gate. The Creature with the big feet was a trusted advisor. How could he be trusted if Thorin hadn’t dreamed up those betrayals? Those battles? 

He looked to Dis and wondered where was Frerin. He asked the Princess on his arm during their daily strolls if she’d seen his father. After all, he couldn’t offer courtship until he’d spoken to his father. Courtship. Courtship that ended in marriage. In stiff clothing and crowns and gift exchanges. Precious gifts like mithril shirts to wear into battle. And why did those thoughts feel so familiar? Not like new thoughts or often pondered thoughts, but like thoughts that had been made reality. Thoughts that had seen the light of day, for all that they lived in the dark mine shafts of his mind. 

If only he had a pickaxe, Thorin would dig for those thoughts and examine them like precious jewels. Jewels as colorful as fields of flowers. Why was there a field of stone and gem flowers on the side of his mountain? And why did he walk through the southern hall, 388th level, and find himself staring at a glass ceiling and strolling through dirt? Bombur had a garden there, but why? No dwarf would willingly till soil. 

For that matter, why were the Brothers Ur and Ri so important to him? He felt like he’d spent long years with them, before and after a grand quest. He’d toiled shoulder to shoulder with these dwarrows. He’d felt hunger and wretchedness and poverty in the mountain. But how was that possible? Erebor’s coffers were overflowing. Ten kingdoms could be brought up from ashes on the wealth of Erebor’s treasure room. Erebor’s hoard. Big enough to be a dragon’s bed…

And where was the Arkenstone? It was not above the throne, where grandfather had placed it. He almost asked Fili and Kili, but at the last moment he wondered why it was them who would know? They were younger than Dis. He should ask her, but each time he meant to, the name of that precious stone stuck in his throat. Choked him. And a fire built in his belly, roaring with the need to find the Creature with the big feet and to pull him close. Lock him in an inescapable embrace. As if he were precious…

Precious, like the flask. He drank of the flask often. His princess always filled it up with sweet, spicy mead. It trickled down his throat like a dose of happiness. When he drank, it was as if he were reliving holiday feasts with his family, reliving his days of freedom from when he’d been a youth. He drank so often of the flask, hoping to fill himself with an easy sense of contentment and happiness.

But, one day, he drank of the flask and that feeling was gone. The mead tasted…like liquor, nothing more. And for all that he drank during the day, the feeling of contentment did not return. In fact, in many moments, confusion and panic prevailed. Something was wrong. It was as of yet, undefinable. But the definition of what was wrong became clearer by the day. He would reach for the flask less. He would skip his strolls with the Princess and wander into the cellars and stare at the inventory sheets. Stare at them as if the held a secret.

The Creature with the big feet was also mysteriously gone. It made him anxious that he could go days without seeing the foreign advisor. Why was he missing? Where was…Bilbo Baggins? The Creature had a name. But what good was a name if it didn’t mean anything to Thorin? That night, he fell asleep repeating the Creature’s…the hobbit’s name.

And in the morning, it meant something to Thorin. He remembered warm moments at firesides, at hearths, at festivals and feasts, at markets, and at court. Nothing specific. Just laughter and…lust. His gut clenched with it, surprising Thorin. Dwarrows did not truly feel such lust, such desire to consume, such greed to possess another being…unless they’d met their One. For the rest of the day, Thorin felt like he was wearing somebody else’s body. Filled with unnatural feelings too powerful and too uncontrolled that his heart was a thudding orc drum, calling hell from the deep all day long. He wanted to rip it out of his chest and set it on fire. What was happening to him? 

He’d never felt so unstable in his life. Except the next day, he woke knowing that wasn’t true. He remembered his life. The quest. The dragon sickness that had turned him into a monster. Thorin did not drink of the flask again. He did not dare. But, still, he presented it to the Princess, empty, for her to refill. And then he presented the flask to Oin, asking him to inspect the contents. Oin did not know what the substance was only that it was not mead. Word was sent to Tharkun, the symptoms too much like magic to neglect summoning the wizard.

Summoning the wizard. They’d had to summon him recently. Because Bilbo was back. Bilbo who had died. Bilbo who had been his Consort. How long had it been since he’d seen Bilbo? 

In a panic, Thorin seized Balin, who stood closest to him, by the ruff of his coat. “Tell me, where is Bilbo?!”

“He’s sleeping, Thorin. Where else would he be?”

“It’s the middle of the day! Why is he sleeping now?” Thorin tried to keep his voice level. Reasonable. But, how could he when it felt like the mountain was falling on his head. How long had he been wandering in a dreamed reality? How long had he gone without seeing Bilbo? For all that Bilbo could not wander the halls in full view of the people with the lie they had told about Bilbo’s journey to the Shire, they used to meet on every evening they could afford to. Usually in Bilbo’s rooms.

“Well now, Thorin, don’t ye remember? Ye approved the plan for Bilbo to observe the fields. Because any mischief is likely to be done by the cover of shadow, Bilbo has been spending the dark times of day and night outside. Which, given it’s winter, has meant most, if not all, of his waking hours.”

There was a whisper of a memory. Yes, he’d given permission whilst under the influence. And Bilbo had known that. Bilbo, who he’d been rude to. Bilbo, who he’d forgotten. Bilbo had known he would say yes, because he’d known Thorin wouldn’t remember his importance. 

Thorin didn’t mean to storm into Bilbo’s rooms, but storm he did, leaving his guards outside his office as he made through the door behind the tapestry. He had enough control left not to shout. Taking deep breaths, he found Bilbo’s bedroom like a hurricane, the door slamming shut behind him as the bottom of his long coat whirled. 

He stood over Bilbo’s bed, gulping large breaths as his hobbit slept. He was better than this. He was more than his rage. But he had to wrangle his thoughts away from dark thoughts, possibilities that had not happened, memories of those fields. He had to tell himself sternly that Bilbo was still alive, still breathing, and he looked healthy. 

Truthfully, he’d left his hobbit to save the day without him. He knew it had to be Bilbo who’d been switching magic mead for regular. He’d been the only one with access to Thorin’s office. Thorin had let himself get caught in the Blacklock’s machinations and Bilbo had had the presence of mind to identify and remove the threat. He reminded himself that, though he was angry and belatedly frightened, his purpose in confronting Bilbo was not to scold, but to ask for compromise. 

Admonishing Bilbo as if he were a recalcitrant child would only result in hurt feelings and Bilbo doing whatever he wanted. He knew this. He’d learned that from the short time he’d been given to spend with his Consort. And this Bilbo was so much like the one who’d traveled this Arda. 

So, with a frail but determined patience, Thorin sat on the bed and buried his hand in Bilbo’s curls. 

Exhausted, Bilbo slept on. He hadn’t heard the door and did not react now as Thorin pet his hair and traced the shell of his ear. He did not even begin to stir until a few minutes later as Thorin was scooping him up into the circle of his arms and cradling him close. 

With difficulty, Thorin stayed his hands from crushing Bilbo close. His hobbit was so small, so frail. A whole head and shoulders shorter and soft like rolling hills across the countryside. Nuzzling into Bilbo’s neck, he murmured until Bilbo began to blink. “Come, Ghivashel, open your eyes. We have things to discuss.” 

With a yawn, Bilbo shifted closer, seeking warmth. When he found it in warm, solid flesh, he startled. “Wha -?! Thorin?” His eyes were big with surprise.

Taking a thumb, Thorin traced Bilbo’s eyebrows. “You don’t know how it pains me to see you so astonished to see me here. I’ve failed you again, sanazyung.” 

Bilbo’s expression scrunched up. “Wait…you’re blaming yourself? Why, did you want to partake of mind-altering mead for recreational purposes? You great, majestic, ridiculous lump!” Bilbo sat up abruptly.

Thorin suppressed a groan. Why had he thought putting Bilbo in his lap would be a good idea? Their courtship, in official steps, was nowhere near complete. He should not have pulled temptation so near. 

Bilbo poked him in the chest. “Now, you listen to me! There was no reason to suspect that the Princess would go so far. And at least the effects weren’t permanent. I thought we would need to call in Gandalf.”

“I have already ordered the wizard be summoned. We need to know what this draught was and how to guard against such things in the future. My life has been a fog ever since the announcement. I had forgotten so much of my life. It is frightening now to think on it. I must thank you, Bilbo, for returning my memories. But, in the same breath, I cannot describe how furious I am with you.”

Bilbo gaped. “Indeed? What do you have to be furious over? I was the one who had to stare into your eyes and see no recognition. Again, it wasn’t your fault, but I can’t imagine you have the right to be angry with me when I cannot be angry with you.”

Thorin glared. “Don’t feign innocence. You know very well that you took advantage of my altered state of mind.” But, oh, how pretty his would-be Consort looked with his mouth parted in shock and the color rising in his cheeks. 

“I beg your pardon?! The world doesn’t stop just because you aren’t thinking clearly. I thought of a plan that would ensure the food shortage wouldn’t stretch into another year and I was the best equipped to put that plan into action.”

“Yes, brilliant plan. Let the Consort, who is supposed to be on his way to the Shire, watch the fields where a version of himself was murdered. In winter. With no boots on. It’s a miracle you did not catch your death of cold.”

Bilbo’s frustrated scowl was heart-stoppingly adorable. “Well, it’s a good thing you did not regain your memories any earlier. My plan worked. A week and some days ago, one of the ravens delivered a missive to Balin from a Blacklock dwarf of the Princess’s entourage. The letter was meant for a recipient in the Grey Mountains. The raven was given no name, just a location to leave the letter. Balin read the missive. In it, the rumor was described and a request was made to arrive during a crescent moon when little snow was on the ground. To leave no trace of their handywork. It did not specifically say that someone was meant to destroy the field, but it was heavily implied.”

“But how will we know who the message was meant for?” 

“The message was delivered and the perfect conditions for a clandestine ransacking were last night. I was going to draw sketches, but there didn’t seem to be a point. I knew who was responsible. I gave Dwalin the news so his patrols could go out and smite the enemy, or whatever it is you call it.”

“You recognized who is responsible for the food shortage?” Thorin asked, just to hear the answer again. Trying to make it sink in. There weren’t many people powerful enough for Bilbo to know them by name. He’d only been here for a short while and most of that time, there had been trouble brewing. For the most part, he only knew those closest to Thorin. The Company, Dis, Dain, the wizard, Princess Irena, Gimli, Bard, Thranduil, their families…was there anyone else?

“Bolg.”


	11. The Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An enemy is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short. I've been working on other projects recently and, though i write everyday, sometimes it's only a few sentences. Thank you all for reading and sorry about all the mistakes riddled throughout. I recently reread what I had so far. I wish A03 was easier to edit because so many of the mistakes are easily fixed and I hate that they're there. Anyways, look out for a silly prompt fill. It's almost finished, so I'll be posting it in the near future. 
> 
> Cheers, yo!

“Impossible. Bolg? Ruining our crops? Working with dwarrows? It’s impossible,” Gloin openly scoffed.

“Are ye sure ye didn’t make a mistake, Bilbo? After all, it must’ve been dark. Not to mention freezin’,” Bofur offered.

“Aye, there’s no shortage of visions extreme weather can beget,” Oin said, knowledgably.

“No worries, Bilbo! Everyone makes mistakes,” Kili consoled.

“We can just think of a new plan,” Ori said, optimistically, already flipping through his tome, looking for answers in historical accounts.

Thorin just sat in a corner, looking troubled. 

“Here laddie, have some tea and maybe then take a little rest. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Balin said, hand already stretching for the kettle.

But enough was enough. Bilbo stamped his foot and glared at the Company. “Confound you all! I know what I saw! It was Bolg. I knew his face almost as well as I knew Azog’s. How could I forget them when they killed those I loved most?” 

“Alright, assuming you truly saw Bolg, then what’s your theory? Why would he do somethin’ so elaborate? And, Balin, you read the missive the Blacklocks sent. What was it written in?” Nori asked, picking the dirt from beneath his fingernails with a knife.

The look Balin gave Bilbo could only be described as pitying. “It was written in Khuzdul.”

“Our sacred and secret language,” Gloin punctuated. 

Bilbo wilted under so many gazes, but still he did not doubt his eyes. It was Bolg. Whether you believe me or not.” Bilbo looked at Thorin imploringly.

But before the King could give any answer, be it supportive or placating, a knock came at the door.

“I said we were not to be disturbed,” Thorin barked. 

The door opened. “Ah, Thorin, I had hoped to find your temper improved, for all that you’ve recently been given a second chance at happiness,” Gandalf said, tugging off his hat. He was smiling, but his eyes were dark with exhaustion. “Bilbo, my boy, I hope that you are in good health. I’ve heard many a troubling rumor throughout my journeys.”

“Gandalf!” Bilbo couldn’t contain his excited relief. The wizard would be able to explain this. 

“It seems, Tharkun, there is more than enchanted elixirs to puzzle over,” Thorin said, resigned to ask once again for the wizard’s help. They explained to Gandalf, with only a few tangents, and non sequiturs, about the fields, the letter, and Bolg’s appearance.

“Huh,” Gandalf sat on his stool, pipe in hand but still unlit. Each time he’d raised a finger to light his pipe weed, a new element of the story stopped him cold. “Very strange,” he muttered. “This scheme seems rather uncharacteristic of the Blacklocks. Enough so that it merits investigation.”

“Perhaps you could start with this,” Balin said, fishing a length of parchment from inside his jacket. 

Squinting, Gandalf unfolded the parchment. His eyes widened. “This letter..!”

“It’s the original letter the crows were asked to deliver to the Grey Mountains. The one we let the crow deliver was merely a copy.”

The room grew eerily silent at Gandalf’s troubled expression. Under his breath, the wizard was muttering, “It’s not possible. Why would he do this?”

“What? You know who did this?” 

Gandalf shook his head rather violently. “No. No, it’s too early to say.” But his eyes were clouded with sadness. “You called me here to analyze a potion?” he prompted.

“But – ” Thorin looked ready to argue. To demand answers. But one stubborn glare from the wizard had him subsiding. “Yes, it was being used to muddle my memories. I couldn’t determine what was real. It made me forget all the details of my life.” He nodded at Oin to fetch the draught. 

Gandalf only looked more disturbed when presented with the maroon liquid. With carful hands, he uncorked the glass bottle and sniffed at the opening. His brows furrowed at whatever he found there, but without missing a beat, he tipped the bottle and took a swig.

“No, wait!” Bilbo cried out, but before he could run forward, he found Dwalin’s thick arm around his middle, holding him back.

“Relax, laddie, he knows what he’s doin’.”

Thankfully, Gandalf did not swallow. Simply swished the substance around in his mouth before spitting it slowly into the palm of his hand. What came out was not liquid. Instead, a long string of metal barbs slipped past the wizard’s lips in careful sections. When finally he had the full length in his hand, he examined the barbs with a dark gaze. 

“What’s wrong, Gandalf?” Kili asked. 

Voice hollow and weary beyond measure, Gandalf said, “The same man who is responsible for this drink has also had a hand in destroying your fields.”

“And you know that man?” Thorin asked, pointedly.

“And does that man know Bolg?” Bilbo appended, hoping Gandalf would have an explanation that would convince the company.

Gandalf shook his head, but it was in despair, not denial. “I don’t understand why. I cannot think of a reason he would do this. But I recognize the magic that’s touched that parchment. It may have been written by a dwarf, but a spell is woven into the letter so that it will turn the crow who delivers it in a different direction. And it is the same magic signature that is responsible for these mental barbs.”

“So a wizard? Surely not Radaghast?” Bilbo asked, shifting on his feet in anxiety.

Finally, Gandalf’s disposition brightened at the mention of his odd friend. “No, indeed not. He could never do something so heinous. But, then again, never is too strong a word. For I thought none of my order could possibly be responsible for such treachery. And yet, it is unmistakable. This is this work of Saruman the White.” 

Balin gaped. “You’re right, that is unbelievable. What could the White Wizard possibly have to gain by laying waste to the fields of Erebor and starving its people.”

Gandalf shook his head. “A grab for power, perhaps. But what power could he hope to steal from Erebor? The siege of a dwarf kingdom can only give you riches. Dwarrows will not follow those of another race, on pain of death. And he does not have the Ring of Power to be so concerned over the might of Erebor. The One Ring has been missing for ages. It is no more likely to be found than...well, in fact, I can think of nothing less likely than that. In such a wide world, who could dream of finding that accursed trinket.” 

Bilbo’s pocket suddenly felt unbearably heavy. “The One Ring,” Bilbo repeated, his hand immediately moving to trace the gold band he kept with him at all times. “What is that? What did it look like?”

Gandalf straightened in his seat with surprise. His gaze slid to Bilbo and honed in on the hobbit’s hand, fisted protectively in the pocket of his waistcoat. “Bilbo Baggins, what is it that you have there?” he asked, voice just above a breath.

A strange, suspicious atmosphere filled the room. 

“Whyever do you ask, Gandalf?” Bilbo took a step away, but he was not on the side of the room with the door. He felt inexplicably nervous all of a sudden. He petted the gold beneath his fingers, trying to disperse the unwelcome anxiety in his veins. 

Gandalf shook his head in utter disbelief. “Will there ever be a time when I am not shocked by you, Bilbo? It occurs to me now that many a time have I noticed your hand clutching preciously at your waistcoat. During the quest, during your reign as Consort, now…why? Speak, Bilbo! The fate of the world could depend on your honesty.” 

“W-why? What is the One Ring?”

Harsh was the gaze the wizard turned on him, but he told Bilbo clearly all the devastation the One Ring was capable of creating. So small, and yet so evil. Bilbo listened to a series of tragic stories, of pain and death an corruption. By the end of it, he felt dirty. With shaking hands, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and took it off, careful that the Ring would not spill out onto the floor. He did not dare reach in and pull it out, too aware of all the times he had held that band, full of a sick avarice. 

With gasping breaths, he presented his coat to Gandalf with the Company looking on in confusion. “P-please, please take it. I don’t want it anymore. It holds too much sway over me as it is. Please, Gandalf, take it away.”

“My dear boy, I cannot,” Gandalf said.

No one had to ask what was on offer. Even Kili could put the pieces of the conversation together. And, with Bilbo’s admission that the One Ring was in his pocket, within snatching distance, the dwarrows all took a collective step back, away from the hobbit. And the dwarf who distanced himself most was Thorin.

Bilbo glanced at the wide space between them in askance. “Th-thorin?”

Thorin held up a hand, his eyes pleading for Bilbo to come no closer. “Please, beloved, forgive me, but I think we both know I cannot be trusted near such a force of corruption.”

Bilbo’s lip trembled, but he nodded in understanding. It didn’t make the feelings of dejection any less persistent though. He felt diseased. 

“What do we do now?” Dwalin was the first to ask, eyes locked on the jacket. “If that ring is what the wizard seeks, enough to try and destroy our people, how do we stop him?”

Exhausted, Gandalf stared at the waistcoat Bilbo still held in his hand. “We must destroy the Ring. That, at least is clear. Also, someone has been manipulating the Blacklocks. I cannot believe they know Saruman is responsible for all this. For all their faults, they are still traditional dwarrows. They would never allow an outsider to hold such sway. And finally, there is Bolg, the son of Azog, to deal with. Even without his master to prompt him, he will continue his attacks on your people and your fields. The fire of vengeance that burns in him will not be doused by anything lesser than the death of you, Thorin, and all those closest to you.”


	12. Not So Easily Deceived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: Gandalf revealed their true enemy to be Saruman and discovered the Ring in Bilbo's possession.  
> Now, something must be done about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for comments. They brighten up my day. Here's a chapter for you. ^_^

It was after dinner a few days later that Gandalf said the last thing Bilbo expected to hear. With Thorin and the Company still in the next room, laughing over dessert, they sat on the bench, blowing smoke rings, and Gandalf told him, “You will have to carry the Ring.” 

“What? I can’t do that? The Ring holds sway over me. Who knows if I’d be able to throw it into the fire? I might decide to keep it for myself and become Dark Lord Bilbo?”

Gandalf huffed. “That is not even the slightest bit amusing.”

“Which is exactly my point.”

“Well, as great as your chances are of becoming a Dark Lord, greater still are the chances that you will corrupt one of your dearest friends by keeping the Ring in arm’s reach, or that you will bring another war upon Erebor.”

Bilbo guffawed. “You make it sound like the first one was my fault. And, since when do you resort to guilting people into doing impossible things.”

“It’s not impossible. The road is yet clear. The enemy does not know the whereabouts of the Ring. Even if Saruman suspects, he won’t understand a hobbit’s desperation to rid the world of an evil trinket. He can’t imagine someone willingly parting with all that power. And, for now, Sauron yet sleeps. But if that Ring is returned to him, he will emerge again to terrorize and bloody this world. You know I’m right about the danger of keeping the Ring. They will come looking for it. If it does not walk out of this mountain altogether, worn on the finger of one of your beloved dwarrows. Do you think Oakenshield will not begin to hear its call in earnest, now that the trinket has been noticed?”

“You make it sound as if the Ring is alive.” Bilbo shuddered. The thought was rather unsettling given how many times he’d worn the Ring.

“It is not alive as you and I, and yet it has a will and a limited consciousness. And it will use those to find its master once more.”

It was a horrible thought, destroying the Ring. He’d had a gander at a map. The distance from the Lonely Mountain to Mordor was greater than the quest had been. Emptier too, since most of their travel would be south and through the Brown Lands. How long would he be gone for? How long before he’d see Thorin again? Would he ever be back?

But the Ring was one of the few things none of the free peoples of Middle Earth had any right being selfish over. And if a hobbit was most likely to succeed, a hobbit would have to go. “Fine, I’ll carry the Ring,” Bilbo said, in a hush, eyes on the entrance to the next room, “But only if we leave immediately. Gather whatever you need and I’ll meet you at the secret entrance into the mountain before dawn. I can’t afford to tarry. There’s too much here to change my mind.”

Gandalf nodded understanding. It suited him well to be off. He didn’t like leaving such things to chance. They’d tested the Ring in the fireplace and he’d read the ancient script, the words like a curse, promising destruction the longer the Ring survived. 

Bilbo didn’t bother sleeping that night. He searched his room, gathered the mithril shirt, Sting, and some of the more recent of Thorin’s gifts like the small vambrances and leather helmet. They’d had an epic argument as Thorin had tried to insist Bilbo walk around in full armor whenever he left the mountain to visit Dale or even just to see the jeweled flower garden. Now, at least, Bilbo could appreciate the usefulness of the gifts as he prepared them. 

But once that was done, with Gandalf in charge of food and transportation, there was nothing left for Bilbo to do. He’d made his paltry goodbyes, not that any of the Company knew that’s what they were. He’d went around to each of his friends, inserting a comment here, a joke there, feeding Dwalin a cookie when he tried to call him fussy again and asking Gloin for a story about his son Gimli while the boy was in earshot. His blush had been bright as his hair, hearing his father expound on all his great deeds, such as guard duty or message delivery.

But now there was one last goodbye to make and it was the most important of all. Because Bilbo knew he’d have to manipulate his beloved King. And he wasn’t sure how to do that successfully. He needed Thorin to accept Bilbo going on this quest while he stayed to be King of Erebor. He needed Thorin to hold the more hotheaded of the Company back, keep them from running after Bilbo. And most of all, if anything happened to him, he needed Thorin to live on and continue, as he had after the death of his first Consort. 

Of course, it wasn’t fair to Thorin, having to survive the death of his One twice in a lifetime. His time here had been so short that the heartache he’d leave behind was disproportionate to any relief his short stay may have given Thorin. But, hard as Bilbo had thought during his packing, no right way to do this came to mind. 

And so, Bilbo decided to do something…selfish. If he didn’t survive, he wanted his last moments with Thorin to have been special. If Thorin would miss him anyway, what could be the harm of taking a shining memory with him on his quest? Wouldn’t it just help the quest succeed if he had a real reason to come back? 

So, entering Thorin’s office by way of the tapestry, he searched the wall until he came upon the suit of armor standing in an alcove. The floor here as dusty, since Thorin preferred to go around rather than enter his rooms through this secret passage, but now, Bilbo knocked against the wall, hoping Thorin would hear and open the passage from his end. One of the stones was supposedly a button, but even if he knew which one, he doubted anything less than dwarf strength could press it.

A long moment passed, but just as Bilbo was getting disheartened, the passage swung inwards. Stepping through, Bilbo found himself for the first time in Thorin’s bedroom, facing a startled Dwarf King dressed in his nightclothes.

“Bilbo, what’s wrong?” Thorin asked, with concern.

“You asked me once, a few weeks ago, about my answer. To the mithril shirt.”

“Aye, that I did.” 

“Well, I figured you deserved an answer,” Bilbo said, stepping in close and raising himself on his toes. To keep himself steady, he fisted the front of Thorin’s shirt, blushing at his own daring, and tilted his head sideways so that their lips slotted together unhindered. 

Thorin hummed in surprise, eyes dark. “You come to me at a terrible time.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bilbo fretted. “I thought this would be alright, but if you’re busy or heading to bed – ”

“Well, whether you should be sorry or not depends on what you meant by coming here, with night upon us, and both of us in our sleepware.”

“Ah,” Bilbo caught Thorin’s meaning. And yes, suddenly this seemed like a terrible idea. But at the same time, he considered again, what if he died during this new venture? How long had it been since he’d shared heat with someone? Why not have his fill for one night of the person he’d loved most in life? The person he’d lost before anything had come of it? “In that case,” Bilbo slotted their lips together again, “this seems like the perfect time.” 

Thorin growled low, his voice full of warning. “It’s been a long time, Bilbo. When I first took my Consort, I was capable of some measure of gentleness. We were both shy and things didn’t seem so dire. Now, however, I lack patience. If you’d warned me sooner, I could have tired myself on swordplay. There’s too much desire in me. I caution you, if you still choose to stay, it won’t be temperate. You will be covered in bruises on the morrow.”

And indeed Bilbo didn’t doubt him. Thorin’s hands were shaking, fingers spasming with the urge to grab, and eyes dark as mine shafts drinking in the sight of him. 

“It’s alright, Thorin,” Bilbo soothed. “We hobbits are heartier than we look. I want you this night, so take me as you wish. And don’t hold back.” 

Those words broke the last of the king’s restraint. Scooping Bilbo into his arms, he carried his hobbit through his rooms and pushed him down on the bed, mouth already tracing the column of his throat with nipping teeth. He sucked small hurts into place before soothing them away with hungry licks.

“Your taste alone drives me mad,” Thorin said, low like rolling thunder. “It’s a true struggle not to bite.” He nuzzled at Bilbo’s collar as surprisingly nimble fingers tempted buttons out of their holes. 

Biblo felt the clasps of his suspenders release and the rest of his clothes came away. “You know, I’m starting to feel underdressed,” he said, gently tugging at Thorin’s sleepwear. 

“I have not the patience,” Thorin whispered into his skin between kisses, already sliding down, further and further. 

As Thorin’s tongue traced a particularly sensitive patch of skin, Bilbo couldn’t hold in a groan of a laugh. It was all happening so fast. Too many nerves were being stimulated at once. Bilbo felt as if he were dying of pleasure. “I-is this whole night going to be like s-starving m-men at a feast?” he wondered, aloud.

“Yes,” Thorin growled, and spent hours making good on his promise. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Deep in the night, when he was sure Bilbo was asleep, Thorin rolled out of bed. He found his closet in the dark and reached in, searching the hook where he knew his sashes to be. He pulled the long, blue sash, woven of spider’s silk. The material would not break under dwarven strength, and yet it was soft against skin. It wouldn’t leave marks if Bilbo should wake before he returned. 

With careful hands, he tied the hobbit’s hands to the headboard and wrapped his legs in bedsheets before slipping out of the room. He needed to see Dis, and he didn’t care how pissy she’d be when he woke her this far from dawn. 

With a nod to her guard, Thorin pounded on the door and he didn’t stop until it opened to a sticky eyed with mussed hair. She gave him the death glare that would have had her grown sons running for their lives. “What do you want?” she snarled, even as her calculating gaze swept his form, cataloguing details, such as his lack of panic, injuries, or formal attire. 

“May I come in?” Thorin asked, mostly a habit he’d picked up from his consort. He didn’t, however, wait to be let in, shouldering through the entrance as Dis locked the door behind him.

“What is it, Thorin? You don’t look terribly upset, but something seems amiss with you.”

With a sigh, Thorin fell into an armchair. 

“Do you want a tumbler?” she asked, motioning for the hard liquor from Nori’s stash that she’d managed to pilfer.

“Can’t,” Thorin said. “I’ll be traveling in a few hours. You shouldn’t either,” he told her, as she went to reach for a glass. “You’ll be running a kingdom on the morrow.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh? And why is that?”

“He truly underestimates me,” Thorin said, “if he thinks he can seduce me the evening after he’s spent a long, clandestine smoke with the wizard and we’ve just finished agreeing that the One Ring must be destroyed."

Dis frowned. “That’s ridiculous. You think he’s going to carry it to Mordor? Gandalf would never let him do that. He’s just one hobbit.”

Thorin laughed outright. “Since when does the wizard shy from sending his friends into peril? This is the same hobbit he manipulated into a grand quest. I’m not sure anymore what would have happened if he hadn’t been able to turn invisible. Isn’t it preposterous? Tharkun only helped us gain back the mountain because he wanted a stronghold here to pen in the enemy. Turns out, perhaps the Ring was the deciding factor in giving him this. Makes you wonder if we’ve really won anything at all.”

He wasn’t prepared for the solid fist that almost knocked his jaw out of place. “OW! What did you do that for?”

“Just listen to yourself,” Dis huffed, directing her angry scowl at him. “Pity, dark thoughts, negative feelings. Correct me if I’ve missed my mark, but you plan to go with him to take the Ring to Mordor. How exactly do you plan to help him if you’re already falling apart?”

A few years ago, he would have argued. He’d have raged at the strange nature of fate and the pit in his stomach when he now thought of this mountain tainted by such an evil power. And, worst of all, once upon a time, he’d have wondered if that Ring could not help him rule. The rush of relief and absolute gratefulness Thorin felt at that moment nearly stole his breath, because he wasn’t that dwarf anymore. And it shouldn’t have been a revelation. But knowing true disgust for the One Ring made Thorin finally feel more secure with the idea that he truly wasn’t gold made anymore. 

“You’re right. If I’m to protect him, I must keep my thoughts bright, fill them with hope and fond memories.”

“And do you have a plan, in case the worst should happen?”

“I’m taking Dwalin. If ever there was a dwarf more incorruptible, I’ve never met nor heard tale of such. He’ll keep Bilbo safe, even if it’s me he’s protecting him from. Besides, we have the wizard. This time, he’s unlikely to wander. After all, what could be more important than the Ring the rules the fate of Middle Earth?” A silent, contemplative moment passed between them in which their gazes strained to memorize each other. In case it was the last time.

But all moments must end, and Thorin wanted to get back to Bilbo before the hobbit could wake. Admittedly, he likely wouldn’t enjoy finding himself tied to the bed. “Will you keep the kingdom from collapse?”

“Oh, dear brother, I’ll do a fine better job than you. You’ll see when you come back. There will be public outcry demanding I stay on the throne,” she joked, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

Thorin pressed their foreheads together and whispered a prayer, for Mahal to look after his family, his Company, his people. It was with heavy footsteps that he left to wake Dwalin and pack his own supplies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, has anyone ever read BlueBastard fanfics? I've seen them posted on fanfiction.net but the author quit writing at some point. I really enjoyed the style. The characters were strong, did not submit easily, if at all, and yet their opponents (read::love interests) were always tantalizingly persistent. There was a very heavy theme of dubious consent, but it was playful rather than dark. I think the best ones were for star wars, but maybe that's because there were more chapters written for it than others. Also, Darth Maul.
> 
> But, anyways, I ask because fellow readers of fanfics are likely to have encountered great stories I've never seen that share something in common with that style of writing. If the writing is good enough, I don't even care what fandom it's in. I've somewhat exhausted my usual means of finding stories - like searching through bookmarks of the writers I enjoy on fanfiction sites. So, if anyone knows of any recs or even just search strategies, it'd be greatly appreciated.
> 
> Cheers!


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